A Tale of Two Lances
by TayteFFN
Summary: 4. The Hundred Seals of Ostia: In which Heath gets arrested by the Ostian Intelligence Agency, Hector verbally dukes it out with Marquess Tania's lawyer, and Serra throws a rock through Hector's window. Chapter 1 revised. NOT FioraSain
1. The Lawliet

**A/N: **

**This is not a romance between Fiora and Sain.**

**Thanks always to GunLord500, and now to R Amethyst as well. The reviews are encouraging, thoughtful and always helpful! I can only hope I've done the critique justice this time! **

**Yes, I have read Shadows Under the Oak Tree. Now here's a different Ilia. Huzzah!**

* * *

**A Tale of Two Lances**

**By Tayte**

**Chapter 1: Lawliet Road**

**_Believe me, I'm sorry you'll be the one to start it all, but I was really worried it was going to have to be Fiora._ _~Legault_**

* * *

If the pegasus knights were Ilia's aorta, Lawliet Road would be the country's vena cava. A winding mountain pass six miles in length, the Lawliet held Lycia fast to the winter nation. Constant Ilian surveillance of the pass made it impossible for bandit raids. The winds would buffet many a careless girl from her airborne seat to the yawning valleys below, but the other Ilian knights, faced with a meaner fate, began their bloody careers feasting their eyes upon the physical manifestation of their purpose: food.

The Lawliet provided the largest source of subsistence to the three eastern states of the Ilian Union: Ragnar, Rearden and the northernmost Anconia. The mid-September caravan alone consisted of fourteen hundred carts and merchant wagons from as far east as Pherae and as far west as the southern tips of Etruria. This was the final dependable deliverance, and it seemed there was little else Ilia could do but depend. A potato famine in Khathelet meant a potato famine in Anconia. Civil war in Caelin? No wheat for Rearden. Though Ilia might sow its blood in the fields of Laus, it could only beg the return of a meager surplus. There were very few who knew better than Ilians that there could always be a greater state of poverty: the poverty of one meal a day; the poverty of no meals some days; the poverty of neighborhood cats disappearing and small children asking if they could eat bark off the trees like pegasi foals do.

In the year of 985, the caravan did not make it to Ilia.

* * *

He was almost as bad for wear as the day he'd been speared back in Ostia. It was clear his detectors decided to punish him themselves, given the bruises across his face, the drying blood atop his lip, the shredded cloak (or was it always that way?), the way he couldn't sit upright and unconsciously bent forward in an attempt to lessen some pain. He had been thrown into the same cell as a furious young pickpocket from Tania and a bearded man who didn't entirely seem to know where he was nor why he was there.

Fiora had been standing outside his cell for several minutes, watching his head rise and sink with sleep. He was breathing hard, his legs drawn up for support, arms resting on his knees, hands covering the back of his head protectively. He had cut his hair shorter and tied it and left it hanging over one shoulder the way Lord Pent did. _Lord Pent…_ She was grateful for the scathing glare the Tanian pickpocket was giving her. She deserved it. Lord Pent, Lord Pent, Lord Pent—how could she keep having such improper thoughts? It had been five years since she saw him last. Enough already!

"Legault."

He didn't move. Fiora reminded herself not to run her hand through her hair again. The prison guard had remained at her side the entire time, properly unassuming in his outward appearances, not asking why she stood with her hand clamped tightly around one bar of the cell as if _she _were the prisoner. Several harmless beetles made themselves at home at one corner of Legault's cell, but other than that, the only unwanted element in the cells—other than the prisoners themselves, of course—was the stink of sweat.

The Lawliet Council kept this prison for troublemakers on the road, deep within the high crowns of the mountains, unreachable except through air, and well-kept to prevent disease. The Ilians respected the power of contagions, especially considering the high concentrations of people as were found in the Lawliet—and considering the far-reaching pegasus knights themselves.

Fiora felt as if her lungs had shriveled away of her inside from some strange cold she had felt when a messenger had made her aware of the newest addition to the prison. The Lawliet Council's verdict was the loss of his hand; he appealed to her to save it, to save him. She almost laughed at the insanity: Fiora was called on to save the hand of a petty thief acquaintance. Then the cold: she had been wondering when there might be a reunion for Eliwood's Elite. It had been five years since it disbanded, and—though she never allowed herself to admit it—she longed for the day she could see Geitz, Sir Kent, Lord Pent, Lord Eliwood, her sisters, even Sain, that mongrel, all together again. Probably never, who could ever arrange such a time? Maybe it was better that way. The job was done, they were not needed—why should they reunite?

And hence her breath came out shivering and weak as she regarded the man. But this couldn't go on forever. There was a new batch of pegasus trainees reporting in an hour; she had to be there. If she could only steel herself, just free him, slap a stern warning across his face and be done with it, and that would be that. Or, why not, off with his hand, off with his hand, why not just let him suffer for the crime regarded as the worst in Ilia? Say nothing, leave, then hear nothing about it.

No. He was an Elite. Lord Eliwood had placed some trust in him. By Set, where did he find _that _faith?

"Legault." It came out stronger this time. Or maybe the first time the sound didn't even form on her lips.

He lifted his head, alert as a wounded animal, and he somehow produced that jaded smile of his when he saw her. For a flash of a moment she wished then that she hadn't called him, that he hadn't awoken and locked his piercing eyes—the same shade as Lord Pent's—with hers.

"Well, this is a surprise," Legault said, remaining seated until he saw cause to stand. "Should I say something about being honored by your presence here, Dame Fiora?"

"There is only one Dame in Ilia," Fiora corrected him and motioned for the guard with her to open the door. "I know it is encouraged in other nations to address a woman by 'dame,' but here in Ilia only the supreme leader is so addressed."

"I know." Legault rose to his feet painfully, holding his breath a little as he grasped for the wall.

"What are you doing here?" Fiora asked.

Legault nodded to the guard and saluted his cell-mates as he stepped out and followed her stride for stride, the twitching of his eye the only crack to the facade he erected to hide the pain. "Supposedly serving five days for snatching a golden necklace." No mention of the true punishment, his hand, tucked deep in the pockets of his trousers. "But I found out the necklace was fake by the time I was caught. What a waste of time…"

"How did you find out?"

Legault glanced at her as he hesitated for a moment at the staircase the ended the narrow hall, the only passage in and out of the prisons. "This isn't for the ears of ladies, but I'll have you know this brand of fake gold changed color in the presence of acid."

Fiora's face burned hot enough to completely miss the chill Legault shuddered from when they stepped into the sullen air, the hood of the dank ceiling replaced by the bleak blue hood of the sky. Though there were no clouds settled in it, yet the sun was nowhere to be found.

"Oh well," he said with a shrug in his voice as he surveyed the line of purple mountains in the distance. "Least I got the bastard in return. He was the big one with the violet cap, in the other cell right across. Did you see him?"

She replied with an irritated "No." Unsure what to do next, she turned on him and said again, "_Why_ are you here?"

He didn't answer at first, simply stuffed his hands in another two of his numerous pockets and sighed, smiling at the puff of breath curling and vanishing. He did it again, chuckled, and finally said, "A favor to an old friend of mine. I hadn't seen him in years. _Decades._" He looked at her again with a cocked brow. "Standing next to you, now, I'm feeling like an old man. I even need this cloak not to be shaking as I stand here. Pretty bad for an Ilian-born, don't you think?"

"You are from Ilia?"

Legault nodded. "'Til I was fourteen. I was the second oldest. Realized my parents couldn't make it through that winter with that many mouths to feed. So I made it easier for them. I left. But anyway, 'Commander,' did that guard just say?"

Fiora cautiously nodded.

There was some look of dissatisfaction in his face. He looked away. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"To have to bother you."

Fiora did not know what to make of it. After another moment of silence, Legault said, "Well, unless you have anything to say to me, I guess I'll get going."

Fiora glared at him. "There _is _something, Master Legault. From one Ilian to another."

Although it was his head flung aside with the impact of the slap, it was Fiora who drew in a sharp icy breath. That was only in her thoughts—that she would slap him! When had it truly become her intention?

She opened her mouth to repair the damage, to undo what she could not, to give voice to her own confusion, but whatever she had meant to say died in her throat, for Legault had dared to meet her eyes again. Her abdomen grew hollow with sudden fear, not for what she saw in his eyes, but for what was not there.

She indicated where the carrier pegasus stables were, turned her back on him, and rejoined the attendant holding the reins of her pegasus.

There had been no anger in his eyes. No reproach. No shock. Only acceptance.

Why?

* * *

"You've stopped speaking."

The woman Fiora spoke to had in fact stopped speaking a full minute ago. The woman had found the commander just departing the courier stations, where a merchant was haranguing anyone who wasn't lucky enough to escape on a pegasus on the importance of delivering his perishables on time. As if the girls needed reminding. Leading Fiora to a side road where shouting was no longer a necessity, the woman announced the successful arrival of the batch of newly-graduated Ilian trainees, all of whom had worked years to finally meet their first commander the next morning.

Fiora sent the lieutenant a cursory glance to affirm the attention she wasn't giving. There was too much on her mind. She now held a neatly rolled parchment bearing the red embossment of the considered-dead Caelin. Why the delay when Florina had been so close for _months_?

"You had your mind on other things, Commander," replied the woman, standing at attention. "I didn't want you to lose your train of thought." She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with her lilac hair bound tightly with the blue and gold ribbon of her home state, Dagny, and a double belt with the three-pointed star of a Host of the Fledglings adorning her waist. Fiora realized this was the first time she had encountered a host since she herself had been a fledgling, to be delivered from the training academy to her first training post.

"You seem happy," said the host.

Fiora blushed. She had let her emotions supersede her duty…but when she reconsidered, she felt no guilt. "It is my sister," she explained, holding up the letter with the Lycian seal. "I have just received news that she is married. It has been five years since I had first seen Florina and Kent together, and even then I knew this would be so, but…five years to make formal their happiness?" Fiora shook her head. "Now I am just remembering what satisfaction feels like."

The host smiled and looked at the people filing in and out of the courier station. "What a pleasure to worry about things of that nature."

"And so easy to forget that it _is_ one, no?"

The host laughed silently as Fiora studied the woman. Her fingers were interlaced in front of her as if she were cradling a wallet full only of copper coins, but her eyes were bright with the tenacity she would use to protect them anyway.

Fiora cleared her throat. "I know you had given me your name only a moment before—"

"Allison," said the host, understanding. "Ishitani."

"From where in Dagny? I myself am from Silba."

"Edi. The village north of the House of Gant."

"I see. I had actually been notified of your delivery of the new batch of trainees this morning." Fiora frowned now. "But you are a little late."

Allison looked the commander in the eye and said, "That is why I came to see you in person. Congratulations on your post as Commander, by the way. I pray to bring you happier news when next we meet."

Fiora nodded. "What happened?"

"One of the trainees had become violently ill from an infection she had incurred from a wound during sparring practice back at the academy. We had to deliver the girl's body to her family in a village on the way here. I request you please consider this before you address them tomorrow."

"Of course. " Fiora nodded, then after a moment asked: "How is the future of Ilia?" She meant what were the new trainees were bringing to the forces of Ilia.

Allison looked away. "Every other time I had been asked this question over the last six years, I had been able to say eagerness…excitement…spirit…dreams… This is not one such batch. They have already suffered a grave loss within their own ranks and they have not even faced the perils of the continent, and the circumstances have made them closer than happy days could make them ever. These girls are scared, Commander." Allison turned to Fiora. "They are scared but they are armed, with a healthy dose of caution, better prepared than any other batch I have delivered thus far. They are learning to harden their hearts already, and will survive whatever is to befall them. They may be the greatest generation I will encounter in my time as host, and I would recommend you put your trust in them. These girls will not disappoint."

"Thank you. I will keep that in mind." Fiora nodded, not knowing that she would never be leading those girls. "Ah…I am reminded of how new I am to this role…how every role brings something new with it. Thank you for your support, Host Ishitani."

Allison saluted. "You know where to find me if you need me. I'll be seeing you again, then."

"You will."

Allison nodded and vanished into a stream of horses, errand boys, and the steady snow of pegasus feathers. Fiora ran her hands up her arms to fend off a sudden chill and sighed.

"The greatest generation…"

She regarded the road teeming with travelers, craftsmen, acting troupes, traders and their carts and the oxen struggling uphill, stopping at a rest station on the other side of the valley. There was a system for keeping the road clean of both human and animal waste, with periodic rest stations where the humans relieved themselves in latrines, and a team of Ilian boys wit scraping shovels and carts to allocate animal waste to other, more frequent, service stations. There was no glory in it, but Ilians took pride in practicality: for example, the ingenious practicality of the carved, discrete, downhill aqueducts from glaciers atop the mountains on the eastern side of the pass.

Yet there were many forms of waste in the world. With strangers coming in and out of the pass at all times to be squeezed with a mass of people found only in cities, trouble was constantly brewing and people were constantly demanding punishment as if they were the only people to suffer theft, broken wheels, broken hearts, broken pride. Five years and six promotions made her the commander of the fleet of pegasus knights patrolling the Lawliet during its busiest time of year. Guild rivalries had not been something Fiora took seriously before now. She suspected half the missing nonexistent hammers and imagined furtive exchange of glances that were grating on the nerves of the new pegasus recruits were submitted by someone who was the cause of another's complaints. Why the merchants insisted on bringing their wives, their sons, their daughters, their toddlers, their lizards and their dead mothers' jewelry was something Fiora did not want to comprehend. Why not bring the whole house on a cart, and invite the neighbors as well?

And this was what the greatest generation would have to face for the coming months, though Fiora did not know it. The little things were wearying. Waking up to face red-faced men with high-pitched voices was wearying. Welcoming new batches of girls who were departing to shatter their dreams against the world—no, these were already shattered—was wearying. But what else was there? What more could she ask for? She was four steps from becoming a General, one of six pegasus knights that oversaw the deployment of the entirety of Ilia's pegasus knights, one from each state and a First General supreme to all. She was deployed in a place with neither combat nor threat to her life, the most violent situations being mere scuffles. She was delegated the honored task of ensuring the peace of the most direct—and least blood-stained—food supply to her people. She was doing so well Farina felt fiscally safe enough—Farina!—to depart from knighthood and run off with Dart in search of treasure. (This was Fiora's justification for it. The alternative was that her sister was insane.)

What else could Fiora want?

Again, a ripple of shame coursed through her body.

"_I know it is not much, but we travel lightly these days,"_ Lord Pent had said when he handed her the necklace. _"Sell it, take the gold it brings you and give it to the families of your fallen friends."_ How long… How long had she kept that piece in her satchel? Black onyx, the width of her pointer and middle finger, boldly placed on an inch-wide band of twenty-four carat gold! Were it not for Florina, who screamed upon seeing it when she'd been looking for a vulnerary for Sain's head-wound, when would she have sold it?

She bit the insides of her cheeks until she thought she would bleed as she turned away from humanity and looked instead at the cold sky. The only thing that rang through her mind that evening: _Filla and Set, it wasn't Farina. Thank you thank you thank you it wasn't Farina. Thank you thank you thank you…_ If Farina had found that jewel, she would have asked questions. Where did she get it? When? Why? Why hadn't she sold it? And if anyone had found out…Jill's sisters, Ilyana's parents and two brothers, Mist's lame grandfather, Mia's husband, oh, if any of them knew! Fiora deserved little more than to be spit upon. Her hometown's children would flock to her to rub the soles of their shoes on her skin, to jeer—oh Set, if only the world never found out!

"_A messenger?"_ Her heart had crashed into her skull and crushed her brain when Lord Pent had proposed keeping her in his service. It was the day of Lord Hector's coronation, and Lady Louise had been standing at Lord Pent's side and smiling welcomingly, lovely in her gown. What did Fiora say to him? How did he…she didn't remember saying anything to him. How did he take her refusal? Oh yes, the startled look on Lady Louise's face, and _"Fiora, are you unwell?"_

_It doesn't matter._ Fiora trudged her way up the side road to the courier stations stables again, to re-saddle a soon-to-be ill-tempered Merlin, her pegasus. _It doesn't matter if I am well or dead. _

* * *

Legault rubbed his hands vigorously. The icy air stung his lungs and seemed to reach from his jaws to prick at his ears, but by now he had gotten used to that at least. He looked at his handiwork with a great relief and stamped on the snow, stamped death onto a girl buried a foot below. The only thing he saw of her was from a hole around her face, like a halo. But instead of her face, there was a mass of indigo tangles. He didn't want to see her face. The only part of her face he saw were the two lips protruding out.

"This is going to happen a lot faster than I thought," he told her as he scanned the skies again. No pegasus knights patrolling the area, considering the only other people who could arrive to this place were also on pegasi—unless Bern attacked, but that wasn't a likely scenario. His intel had been correct.

"I mean, getting caught stealing got me up here faster than I had hoped," he explained to the unconscious girl buried in the snow. "Guess this really is a place where thieves come to die. But too bad about that necklace, eh?" He ran a hand down the front of his chest, considering how much time he had left. "Believe me, I'm sorry you'll be the one to start it all, but…" He heaved a great sigh of relief. "I was really worried it was going to have to be Fiora. I knew she would trust me, but I didn't expect she would trust me enough to turn her back and leave without even securing me directly into the hands of the carrier knights… You poor little attendant, she just left me in your hands. How were you to know I knew how to stash a knife where the sun doesn't shine? Who could have prepared you for _that_?"

He kneeled at the hole in the snow and said, "Would you hold on a moment? I feel a bout of cough coming on."

Reaching into his mouth, he pulled out a dark pill he had tucked into a hole in place of a back tooth he had lost in Ostia his teeth. He regarded it for a moment, then crushed it with his teeth. The effects were instantaneous. The putrid taste had him heaving painfully—there were two broken ribs, after all—but there was no food to come out. Instead, a small steel capsule, a fat cylinder an inch wide and half an inch deep, dropped into the palm of his hands. He wiped his mouth.

"I think I could do you some courtesy in exchange for your services," he said, sticking the steel capsule into the snow to clean it. "So, you said you'd keep this warm for me? Well, you didn't quite _say _it, but I appreciate the offer. Ah, sorry if it makes you a little uncomfortable." He opened her mouth and slipped the disk inside, lodged inside her teeth. "Now then, I can't have you screaming either." He began to brush the snow around him over the hole. "Don't worry, I'm sending you to Heaven. And if you hate me, just know that you won't ever see me again, okay?"

He stamped on the snow again, then took several steps down the snow bank and stopped, picked up a handful of snow and crunched into it to wipe away the taste of the dark pill as he muttered to himself. "Thirteen more to go."

* * *

Allison swung towards the Micaiah Mountain, where the peak was lit as vigilant signal that all was well at the prisons. At this point, some of the peaks of the black mountains rose high enough to be kissed with snow, like the lips of a million stars descended from the heavens and frozen against the rock. Banking on the snow, she drew in a stabbing, head-clearing breath and coughed. Her people weren't completely impervious to the cold, thick-skinned as they were. Allison dismounted and stamped upon the snow to warm herself. This was the only place she could think now.

It _was_ him. Legault. She had only been five at the time, but who could forget that scar on his face? The youth who had pulled her father, Jenoah, out of the ice. The scar was Thor's revenge, he had supposedly said when old Neimi had stitched together his face. It was the Ilian death god's final say.

When Allison first saw him four hours ago, she had thought his hair had turned white with age, but that wasn't possible—he was younger than her father. No, it was a versatile violet that just looked wrong in the shadows. They were kicking in his stomach, the trader from Tania and his two younger brothers. It wasn't something she wanted the trainees to see, but it was something they needed to learn to deal with, so she had stepped in with an armada of forty-four lance-bearing knights-to-be. When she realized who she had rescued, she secured the man and the trader onto carrier pegasi—a naturally blind species that accepted male riders—to escort them directly to the station of the Lawliet Council three miles down the mountain, conveniently right along the way to the East Barracks where the trainees were to be delivered anyway. Legault didn't recognize her. She didn't introduce herself for his shame. Of all the crimes in Ilia, the greatest was theft. Always theft.

She wished she did introduce herself. She wished she could have slapped him, what a man he was!—Brought so low? _How_? That was all she needed to know. The young man her father revered so much as to offer him her older sister Alberta, so much so as to send her to him in Bern. And now she felt as if he had stolen her sister too.

_Where is Alberta? _ The thought had first struck her the moment she left the new Commander of the Lawliet. "_I found him." _That was her sister's last letter, five years ago. There was nothing else. Not even a signature. Just three words. Was this why there was no more word from Alberta? The shame? Of what he had become? Was this what he had been for the last…more than six years? Why didn't Alberta return?

"Just wait a little longer," Jenoah had said. Allison always hated it when her father said that. When he asked for patience, something had gone wrong. But there was nothing to do but obey her father and keep working for the Ilian Union so she could save money to get a doctor for her other sister, Amy. "Just wait a little longer." Two years later, Alberta had been officially classified missing by the Ilian Union's deployment records, but still, "A little longer, a little longer." It was a stubborn chant when she returned from duty three years after the last letter. By then he was a darker man, his oldest daughter missing, one youngest in service, his middle daughter ill and his wife ashes in the wind.

Allison looked up the path to the prisons, where torches beat at the dark and the cold with some fiery desperation. All that she could see rising out of the ground was basically a little hut with two torches at the entrance, easily missed, for the entirety of the prison was underground, equipped with geothermal ventilation and heat. Did he… Did he lose his hand yet? How long would he last without it? Those who resorted to theft most often had nothing else they could have done to sustain themselves to begin with, but in Ilia, the only people to steal from were the others with hardly anything more.

After several steps toward the hut, she stopped. She had the Blue Banner, the javelin serving as a flag-staff to the Ilian Union's flag, to mark her a knight in direct deployment of Ilia. Her black uniform marked her a messenger (versus the white uniforms of loaned mercenaries), the double-belt a Host of the Fledglings. None of these granted her the authority to chat with prisoners. She shook her head and labored up the path anyway. From one Ilian to another, nobody got in the way of finding one's sister.

* * *

The guard Allison was met with was a stoic man with hard-lined jaws and large eyes that seemed to absorb everything: light, tension, desperation. He shook his head when she asked to see the thief.

"He's not here."

"What? But I brought him here only today—"

"He was released."

"By _who_?"

"That I cannot say."

They stood in the prison guard's office, the first room to be passed for access the cells. Until seventeen hours ago, no one who did not belong had made it through the room.

"Where could I find him?" asked Allison.

"I cannot say."

"Which carrier knight took him back?"

"I cannot say."

"How did he circumvent his punishment?"

"I cannot say. My apologies, but the matter is that I do not know."

Allison felt a surge of anger boiling through her veins. "How can you not know? These things should be on record, shouldn't—" Her voice broke. It must have been off the record. How could she possibly find him now, on the Lawliet Road, he could be _anywhere_! She clenched her fists to counteract the burning at her throat and shook her head. "Just—never mind."

* * *

Out in the cold again, she glanced up at the waning moon that haunted the sky like a ghost. Her footsteps crunched in the snow as she walked down towards the stables. She hadn't spent this much time thinking about Alberta in years. She had taught herself how to do that. But no number of years could not dull the yearning to know what had happened. She couldn't even see her sister's face as a whole anymore. If she concentrated, she could glimpse Alberta's eyes, brighter than her own, always more alive than her own. The crescent of Alberta's close-lipped smile, the way it lined up with her chin. The chipped tooth right in the front would only show when someone could prod her sister enough to laugh; Allison was always astonished at how much embarrassment the chipped tooth caused Alberta.

Allison stopped walking. Turning her back on the exposing moon, she instead watched her own blurry shadow quake as she fought to keep silent. If she didn't wipe her nose fast enough, her nostrils would be frozen shut in this cold. For a moment, she swayed on her feet and held her head to steady herself, biting her tongue harder and harder until the pain of her tongue outmatched the pain in her heart. She'd never considered the fact that she would never see Alberta again, or—what if she didn't recognize her?

Why start thinking these things now?

A moan wrangled itself out of her throat and burst in her ears as if the whole world were crying with her, a blast of wind knocking her to her knees. A spray of snow slapped her back and another scream exploded in her ears. She didn't have the strength to scream like that. There was another scream. Another. Behind her, geysers of snow and ice rocketed into the sky with each scream, lancing up as if to pierce the sky and coming down again in volcanic arcs. A chunk of sharp ice sliced through the forearms Allison protectively raised over her head as her ears developed a constant ringing. She could no longer hear the screams but counted the geysers that ran down the snow bank—seven, eight, nine—the first geyser had sprayed blood all over Allison. That couldn't be her blood, could it? Could she bleed that _much_?

She felt the world sliding from underneath her and moved to regain her footing. But she was already standing. The stars above her were flying up and the crests of the mountains, the sitting white sentinels, grew taller and seemed to rise up to stand. And the world _was _sliding underneath her. Below her, boulders of snow and ice cracked apart. Like a hammer taken to a glass marvel, the white shoulders of Micaiah Mountain shattered into a torrent of rock, ice and snow rolling and tumbling down. Now she could hear again, the heavy roar echoed off the shoulder of other mountains, the earth's guttural shriek of pain frozen in time but sounding forever.

Allison's fingers were suddenly grappling onto the snow when she felt her world flip. She couldn't feel her legs. She'd never felt this heavy, as if someone loaded her blood with lead. The stars weren't supposed to be underneath her. Her fingers were hot; she was bleeding, bleeding and watching the world fall from underneath her, falling faster than she could fall. The boulder she had been standing on was now in the distance below her, small enough to match the size of her big toe before it slipped over the edge of the naked black rock remaining.

She was telling herself to breathe, wishing the thrashing in her chest would cooperate and match her efforts—her heart. That was her heart beating wildly in there, as if set free from all correlation with her lungs. She had one leg braced against a narrow shelf of rock, the knee scraped raw, the other foot over air, unable to find some solid place to be. Her fingers had dug inch-deep gashes into the snow. Claws would help, she thought for a second before countering that her claws would have been ripped off already and left her in greater pain.

And then she laughed at the absurdity of her existence. This was not in her training manual. This was not the death she had signed up for. As a Host of the Fledglings, she had sunk into the comfort of only traversing Ilia's safe havens with children who still dreamed of big things. Wonderful things. Things that extended beyond getting home one more time and apologizing to one's mother for that horrible argument. Beyond sharing cranberry pie with one's cousins one last time—who else could teach how to make that crust properly? Beyond holding a loved one in two arms heavy with the weight of lances and blood. But still, her last moments she'd spend clinging to a _rock_? The ideal death, though her mother sternly reprimanded there was no such thing, was either with a javelin in hand, or the affirmation that last month's payment had been sent home already. She had neither because she was clinging to a rock.

She rested her forehead against the snow, rocking her head against it. This couldn't be it. She hadn't found Alberta yet. She hadn't beaten her in a single card game—Alberta was the one who taught her to cheat, after all. And she hadn't taken Amy to the doctor yet. She'd given up the dream that she herself would become Amy's doctor the day she was made the breadwinner of the family the day the Union declared Alberta missing, but she hadn't taken Amy to the doctor yet. And she hadn't seen Jasper, the fiancé she had given up, and his new wife, or his children Thito, Tate and Thany, like she promised she would. She hadn't seen off her twenty-fourth pegasus knighting ceremony—tomorrow, no, today by the look of the bleeding horizons—when she would officially have hosted over a thousand pegasus knights into their knighthood. She hadn't—she hadn't done anything yet!

She looked down at the void beyond her legs. If she could have gotten a proper view of Micaiah Mountain now, she would have thought someone had decapitated it. The entire snow peak had dropped away and landed almost in graceful silence, for the roar of the tumbling had ended so quickly.

She felt her fingers freezing in place. Her leg…she needed to shift her weight, but she couldn't place her other foot on that foothold. Could she risk a hop and possibly stand to fall off the face of the world, her fingers ripped out and—

She felt the coolness of the shadow move across her more than saw it. She looked up. The sky was filling with loose pegasi, panicked and cutting erratically through the sky. The carrier pegasi from the stables at the prison—they too had collapsed in the avalanche? The blind pegasi roved in circles, shrieking calls to each other in some attempt at navigation, unable to hear the replies of the natural leader pegasi, the warriors the pegasus knights rode. Only more panicked squeals from other blind fellows. A younger pegasus who had not yet developed its echolocation skills crashed into a rock ledge and dropped into the abyss. They were so pitifully helpless!

"HOOOOY!" she called. The flock of pegasi went silent. "HOOOOOOOY!" she called again.

She was safe. They were safe. She could make it. She just needed one to come closer. She watched them crane their necks in her direction and fly closer, closer, their shadows racing up the black walls underneath her, and then the whistle blew. Instantly, the carrier pegasi aligned into a square formation, neighing to each other to locate their brethren, and flew over her head in answer to a prison guard's commands.

"No—no. No!" She drew in her breath and poured what remained of her energy in her calls. No pegasi turned back for her. She rested her head on the slivers of snow she had locked her fingers into. Sheer rock for forty feet below her…she couldn't tell how far the snow went up…the pinking clouds above gliding carelessly by… Her tears freezing her face against the snow wall…the sound of beats…wing beats… She couldn't turn her face to see it.

There was a strange rumbling in her throat. A silent, hysterical laughter. Now her savior comes! And her face is stuck to a wall! Her face was shaking so much with the laughter she felt the strain on the skin of her cheeks, the burning ice that threatened to rip it away. She called unintelligibly to the last pegasus, the young one who had crashed into the ledge and fallen.

"Here, here, hooooy," she called and laughed. The beating of the wings was nearer now, and steady, and stationary. "Do you—ha ha—do you know what I ha-have to do now, pegasus? Ha ha ha ha, I…I have to cry some more. To melt the ice on my cheeks or else fasten myself harder—I don't know…" and she collapsed into another fit again, grinding her teeth against the tearing at her cheeks. "Cry… Sad thoughts, sad thoughts… She's dead. Alberta's dead and Amy's dying…ha hahahaaaa…. Hah…" There was a twisting in her stomach. She couldn't do this. She had tear her face off if needed but…but… Was the pegasus behind her? Where was he?

She felt it, the brush of feathers. The pegasus was unsure how to approach her. Its erratic wing beats hinted an injury, she wasn't an expert in this, but it was there…behind her…now all she had left…was one conclusive movement… One chance to pull away from the snow, to pull out her hands from where they had stuck fast, to leap from the ledge, backwards, onto a pegasus she could not see…

"It is my hour of need," she prayed, clamping shut her eyes, wondering if her sister had breathed these words yet. "And I do entrust myself to the graces of my gods." She gathered the last reserves of her strength, the last reserves of her mother's strength, of her grandmothers' blood. "Filla, infuse in me your might and your power." She opened her eyes again and glared at the white walls that dominated her sight. "Set, your litheness and your grace." She wiggled her fingers, knew they were blue and felt nothing. "Thor, your vengeance unto the undeniable death that takes us all…" A rock skittered from the ledge she stood upon. "Let me die another day!"

Molten iron bloomed over her left cheek and slithered down, burning, to her lips, hot, salty, fresh and stinging as the sudden cold wind. The white walls faded out of sight and there were the dark gray plumes of feathers, the gray bar she could only command her unfeeling hands to reach out for. In reflex to her sudden weight on his left, she felt the pegasus tumbled to the right to force her straight and even onto his back. The world tilted forward and she fell towards the black rock, her hands left the bar that held inexperienced riders in a cagey saddle and found the pegasus's mane, and her legs found their way around the pegasus's shoulders and they tumbled down the valley with no control. When at last she she registered what her eyes were telling her, she pulled back so sharply upon the pegasus's mane that the beast squealed in pain. She did it.

But the long drop into the valley was no longer a drop. A white serpent had bloated between the mountains, ice thick and sparkling like crystal. It wound thousands of feet down the length of the valley, a monstrous dragon greedy for space and despair, jagged horns spiraling up and grabbing the light of the new-found sun where a service station had once been. Allison wiped her bloody hands on her black trousers and shot through the hollows of the Borderland Mountains, carrying a simple message for the Commander of the Lawliet.

The avalanche had landed on the road. This year's Lawliet had come to an end.

* * *

**A/N: **

**Thanks for reading! **

**I'm hoping my revisions have addressed five of the key elements GunLord500 and R Amethyst had spotted for me, including keeping Allison from becoming Mary Sue, Fiora's overly-hateful treatment of Legault, why Legault felt the need to steal in the first place, the overall confusion due to too much information presented in the first chapter, and what Ilia looks like for this story. Let me know how I did with these!**

**Please let me know if there seems to be an intimate relationship between Fiora and Legault—the only thing they have between them is that Legault reminds Fiora of Lord Pent. That's it.**

**If some of you were confused by some unfinished business in this chapter and some things do not make sense, (like what was Legault doing and why Fiora will not be leading the new batch of trainees), read on! **


	2. The First General

**A/N: Minor edits. Wheeee.**

_A Tale of Two Lances:_

_Chapter Two:_

_The First General_

_Th-Th-Th-There are simply some things…th-that should not be spoken aloud! ~ Florina_

* * *

Perhaps her eyebrows were the most expressive part of her face. For long moments at a time, they remained plastered halfway up her forehead, incredulous lines scrunching the rest of it like a fat bulldog's face. She was either nodding her head as she approved her own words or shook it to excuse her implications. Whatever she was doing, Sain wasn't entirely sure what _he _was doing with her. He had decided that five years was too many to go without seeing the only liege to whom he would loan his knighthood. Today he decided to reward himself for the good time he made that week. Right now he was on the brink of deciding Bern's girls hadn't gotten any prettier since he last saw them. And the need to get away from this chatterbox, who couldn't at least be as cute as Serra, was tickling at his brain this very second.

When he told Kent he was going off to spread love to the wonderful women of this world, he he was quite serious about not discriminating… Now he simply needed to disengage himself from her.

"Oh, Sain, you irresponsible lout!" he said, smacking his palm to his forehead as he had seen his old friend do only too many times. "Listen," he wrapped an arm around the girl, Rosario, and led her away from the Pheraen apple orchards he realized she had been leading him to. "I need to finish a report for tomorrow." Five years ago, he would never have used such a line, but having used it once in a panic, he found he left a lasting impression of responsibility through his self-deprecation—and was leaving an opening for relief for hard times to come. "Forgive me, my sweet, but would you allow me to walk you safely home?"

They always said no. This was the surefire way, his trump card, to free himself of their presence within minutes. And having learned from experience that speaking too softly inclined girls to lean in to hear him, a clever route to intimacy, Sain had become a rather successful bachelor in many, many… many ways.

Dusk was falling upon the Bern-Pherae border-town when Sain had returned to the inn he was given free room and board. He had made a name for himself as the Green Lance, the traveling knight-bard of Caelin, spreading spectacular tales of the adventures of Lady Lyndis of the Lorca and other marvels of the world he had seen…without making further political references. Sain had beaten the odds. He was a warrior, but he needn't die in some tragic but incredibly honorable and awe-inspiring incident to ensure his name was carried on throughout the rest of time. He had already done so with his songs. Every now and then he would extend an offer to train a village's militia and would share what wisdom Kent and his tactician Mark managed to pound into his head, particularly regarding bandits of the roads and the mountains. Peace was good and well, but his sword was always at hand in case there were any maidens or baby bears in need of rescue. (The latter was a heart-warming incident until the mother found Sain…that was almost not a happy ending.)

Sain had taken a single step into the inn, but turned back around, forgetting the heavy door until it came swinging back and shoving him out. He knew it was useless, but could not help squinting at the four wyverns flying east. Though Heath had been part of Caelin's army for only three-quarters of a year, Sain had become somewhat fond of the young man. Then he remembered Vaida and stepped back into the inn, happy to be greeted with smiles and good food and ale, and happier not to have seen at least _one_ person since the Elite disbanded.

"Today, youtoo shall hear of my lady!" he announced with a mug raised high to applause. Fourteen children played marbles and dolls or simply sat by the fire, flipping braids and sneezing and wiping sleeves across their noses and eyeing Sain's battered green armor, the seal of Caelin's rearing stallion on the spaulders, the glint of the hilt of the sword at his hips, the fire in his eyes and the flame of his words. They knew he could chase after them even when encumbered by his armor, so they were suspiciously well-behaved in his presence. If he hadn't been a wild child himself, he would have half believed he wanted a pair or so for himself, but instead he contented himself with weaving his tales to see their bright faces, jaws hanging and eyes wide and intent, enraptured, laughing at the right moment and silent with fear the next. Whereas the adolescent girls would sigh at Florina and Kent's happy ending, the kids were more interested in the heroic triumphs of battle and the numerous tricks Nils liked to pull on the slightly deaf tactician.

All in all, it was a good day, Sain decided when he had wished the entire village in the inn goodnight and found himself alone in the room he was provided, with his lances guarding his pack filled with nothing too important and the longest cot the villagers could find for the tall man. Sain stripped himself of his armor and nodded to himself. Life was good. He should write home about it.

Then he doused the lamp and laid himself down to sleep, but he was conscious for hours thinking about all the stories he would tell the liege he would never see again.

* * *

First General Victoria was not a woman to anger easily, if at all. She was not a woman who was often seen smiling, either, but merely watching with her piercing eyes. From what Fiora had heard of her, she liked dice and was never without gold, held her senile mother in the highest esteem and was a voluntary vegetarian. She was also as old as Eliwood's mentor, Marcus, had been (or still was…that man seemed to have a ridiculous amount of life in him), and spoke in a voice increasing in pitch by the day. Somehow.

Before they met, First General Victoria had been Fiora's idol. Today she was to be her punisher. Fiora didn't know it yet.

"The merchants, the traders, the travelers on the other side," said the general, "have already been notified that we cannot clear the pass for months, and by the time we do—"

"The snows will come again, Ma'am." Fiora was sorry to have to welcome the woman with the report of the last three days. They stood in Fiora's stone office in one of the few stations built into the face of the mountain, with a verandah that overlooked a section of the road but was safe from the view of the roadblock.

The six mile pass that snaked through the mountains had caved in for a mere half a mile, but there was no way to cleave it open by the time the Ilian winter arrived. The pegasus knights knew it. The merchants knew it.

"The girls are all tense,_"_ Fiora supplied, and the general had nodded. She knew. "They eye the food in covert glances. The merchants see them. They know." The general had nodded then too. "Were I not an Ilian knight myself," Fiora continued, "I might sympathize with the loss of trust in their defenders. We are now their greatest fear. There is a faction of pegasus knights who, I believe, intend on acting on that fear. Some of the traders and merchants had readied to turn back, but Captain Kay Ludlow had managed to pull together her company to bar their way and convinced them to wait a little longer. To wait for news. The faction of pegasus knights might refuse to let them leave in the same manner they arrived."

"They would be fools to try such a stunt." The general's voice was filled with sadness however. "If we did that, we would betray the world…and there would not _be_ a Lawliet next year."

Fiora nodded. "Let us go and see the people." She led the general into a maze of lit stone halls. "First General, the knights want to know if we could we operate an airlift."

"I don't understand what you mean."

"A tactician I had encountered as a mercenary used pegasi banded to large wooden boxes to transport artillery equipment across battlefields."

"Not without payment," said the general. "Though you bring up an excellent point. However, we could not pay for the foodstuffs ourselves."

"We could send some of the girls to retrieve money from each of the towns and villages."

"It would be two months long a project at the least…but how would you schedule the deliveries?"

Fiora was silent. The general continued her train of thought.

"Would our girls go to collect money from the towns first, over the plentiful villages nearby? What of the villages beyond the closest state Rearden? What of the people of Ragnar? We cannot voyage that far; we don't have enough knights in deployment within our country's borders to supply the nation with the food in this manner. More importantly, there is not enough food here to do so in any case; any deliveries would involve prioritizing who gets fed. It would only cement the social classes our nation has stratified into over the last twenty years." The general contemplated nonetheless. "We could collect money in the manner you said if we also have the villagers arrange to send a delegate to Edessa to pick up the food. First come, first serve, they would all have equal opportunity to receive the food. That still does not change the fact that there would be villages that would pay for something that doesn't exist. Our military might have rosters of each of our units, but the Dame couldn't manage to convince the Union Council to do so with our people. If we had a census of our people, even if it were only once a decade as Bern does, we could have arranged to provide food based on population."

Fiora pushed open the final door and stepped into the bite of the morning air with the general. For a moment, they watched the processions of the shantytown the pegasus knights had organized into streets and avenues. _If it's going to be the end of the world_, said the True First General who had organized the Ilian riders into a military force eight hundred years ago, _then by the gods I __**will **__have order! _Now an Ilian motto.

The general spoke in contempt. "I would that Lord Wesley of Anconia was not part of this country's administrative process. That man could just go home and stick his—" Fiora's brows jumped off her face at the word "—into his mouth to keep it full and shut." That's right, the general was very vulgar too…

Fiora continued her report. Around the bend of the pass snaking through the mountains, merchants gazed at the looming ice and rock tower that blocked the way to the year's profits. The children were slapped into silence. Pockets were no longer violated, words no longer trusted. It was as if time had frozen, and everyone hung to every second that did somehow pass as if the harder they held, the less the world had to be real. The Lawliet had been laid low not by a hoard of bandits, as Ilia had prepared for, but by an avalanche.

The First General was silent as they walked between carts and tents, nodding at the saluting pegasus knights and shimmying around people who did not meet eyes with the two pegasus knights but glared at their backs as if to break them with the weight of their hate. Down one avenue, a woman's moans of pains could be heard. Her husband was running from person to person, screaming, "I need a towel! A midwife! Somebody! Hot water! Please!" The people surrounding him looked up at his alarm but continued on with their separate lives. The man's eyes came to rest on the stew boiling in someone's pot and he moved to it, only to be blocked by another man.

Fiora and the First General moved in their direction before more than words could be exchanged.

"That man's wife is in labor," said the general to what seemed to be a trader of knives, the robust owner of the stew. "Keep everything else you put in, but please allow him the water."

The man looked pained, looked at the multitude of eyes on him. A girl of four or so years, with his nose and eyes, clambered out of the tent behind him, saw the fixed stares of the world upon her, and with wide eyes ran back inside.

The general turned and pointed at a young man. "You, see that pail? I don't care whose it is; you go to the springs and bring back more water." The youth was quick to his work. Pointing to several of the women, the general continued, "You shall attend to the woman. You three over there, search through the camp for clerics, priestesses, valkyries, sages—whatever you can find. Ask the pegasus knights you encounter for vulneraries." The general turned back to the man with the stew. "Please finish cooking for your girl." The man with the as of yet inedible stew let down his shoulders in relief. "But allow the pot and fire to heat more water as well."

He nodded, and the world began to move again.

"This is not our business."

When he found the source of the voice, he hissed, "Sheela!"

His wife, whose cutting eyes glinted like the gemstones in her ears, did not look at him, did not wince at the sudden cry from the nearby tent of the woman pleading to bring life to the earth, did not see her peering through the slit of the door of the tent. She chose instead to leer down at the elderly woman, who stood half a head below her and, as she thought, half the will. But whereas she wielded her powerful voice as a whip or baton, the general chose instead to simply slip the carpet from under her feet.

"I thank the gods every day," the general said, "to have made me Ilian."

The trader's wife's cheeks grew pink with the disgrace of Lycian eyes falling away from hers, the refusal to look upon her, the uncomfortable shuffle to remove themselves from her and to move along with the preparations that might soothe the crying voice that was starting to fill the sky. Her husband stood stock-still beside her, turned aside his head and wept.

Fiora and First General Victoria turned away. The husband of the laboring wife had vanished at some point. They weren't given enough time to search for him and gauge the progress however.

"First General!"

Fiora and the First General turned as one in answer to the call. A pegasus knight approached, her hair crudely put up in a mess and eyes haloed in black circles, jogged to them and began to cough before she could say anything more. There was a white patch upon her cheek and encircling all her fingers, new skin the miracle of someone's Heal staff. She smelled of blood and held her shoulders in a stiff way and could not be brisk in her movements.

"Host Allison," nodded the general.

Fiora masked her surprise, for she had not recognized the woman, and nodded curtly to the woman's salute.

The general continued, "I would ask why you are still here, but I agree with your judgment: we do not need more trainees here in this situation. Which academy were you to fly to next?"

"Anconia, general," Allison said, coming close to the general to confer in softer tones as she glanced up at the activity around her. "I did not expect to find you in passing, but I have something of grave importance to report to you."

The general frowned. "Is it something your commander has reported to me?"

Allison shook her head. "I believe I must speak for myself in this regard. I was unable to report to her clearly three days ago."

The general nodded approval and turned to Fiora. "I suppose this is going to need to be somewhere without more than six ears."

Fiora gave a quizzical glance at Allison and nodded.

* * *

"I still have not found my pegasus," Allison explained to her superiors as she came out of the stables with one of the courier pegasi. "But please, to the prisons."

They nodded and at Commander Fiora's lead, the three knights took to the clear, cold skies and navigated emptiness in space and, in Allison's case, in stomach. She prayed it would not growl so while she was uttering words of relatively cataclysmic proportions ten minutes from now. Swallowing more than normal was not going to make it better. She checked her hands. The skin of her fingers had ripped off and might have been dribbling down with melting yesterday afternoon, and the new skin she did not yet accept as hers was numb and unable to tell what it was feeling due to the not-yet-made connections to her sensory nerves. She could hold the glowing blade of a newly made sword and her body would register no more pain than the terror she would feel watching her skin melt away or liquefy. So she had to check her hands every once in a while, to assure herself that they were, in fact, tightly clamping to the reins of the stranger-pegasus she rode.

They landed upon the now rock spire of Micaiah Mountain. She had forced herself to return to find her pegasus, but stayed no longer than was necessary to discover the pegasi had all flown free when the snow and ice that held up their stables fell away. Some had been crushed by falling timbers—broken bones, spines snapped in half—horror stories all of them. Those were the only pegasi that were accounted for, and Bruno was not one of them. She thanked the gods and fasted for the last day, but perhaps would have to continue her fast some other time. She needed energy to continue her pursuit…

The general dismounted first and walked so close to the edge of the rock shelf Allison and the commander exchanged glances and hurried forward, damning any sudden blasts of wind that would dare to blow now. But the general stepped back and looked at Allison, expectant.

"First General Victoria," began Allison, then hesitated, looking from the general's face to the commander's and back, suddenly doubting herself, suddenly wondering what she was doing, why she was the one who had to say this thing, how was she sure—how did she know anything? What did she know, after all? "I…" She stopped again, looked away, at the sky, her boots, the accusing mountains, the three pegasi skittering rocks with their hooves in boredom—boredom!—and then she could speak again. If the world could be so absurd as to allow bored pegasi to exist in a moment of crisis like this, surely what she was about to say was not so absurd at all.

The commander glanced at the general, and seeing no response but an endless reservoir of wordless patience, drew in a breath and was gauging the place of the sun in the sky when Allison said it.

"I have reason to believe this avalanche was an unnatural act of violence."

Commander Fiora started. "What?" Again, she tried to gauge the general's opinion from an expressionless face. Clearly, she had not had much time with the general.

"I was here when it happened." Allison motioned her head to the small entryway that was all that could be seen of the prisons. "I had personally delivered a thief to these prisons and, having recognized him as an old family friend, come back before dawn to see him and interrogate him about the current location of my sister, Alberta."

She saw Commander Fiora stiffen, but the general faced Allison and did not see. The general asked, "Explain what makes you think it was an unnatural incident."

"The best I was able to offer to the commander," said Allison with a nod and an unnamed prod for the general to turn and regard them both, "was that I heard…screams. Inhuman screams, separate, and with each a section of the snow would fly up like a cold geyser. They did so in a systematic arc, nine times at least, and cleaved the snow's support from the mountainside so it would—I thought of this _after _I had reported—land directly onto the Lawliet. First General Victoria, I fear we may be under attack."

"Let's not jump to conclusions." The general raised a hand to deflect the sun from her eyes and winced, quieting Allison's instinctive interjection with a glare. "Nine…separate…an arc, you say…do you have any other witnesses, Host? No? …Commander Fiora, why are you shaking?"

The commander opened her mouth but sound could not come before tears."I've made…a terrible mistake." She swayed on her feet. She fell to her knees and held her head as if to repel some realization and gushing some guttural anguish through gritted teeth, she screamed, "It's not—it's not possible!"

Allison didn't fear until now. She doubted herself, had asked all the essential questions—who would attack Ilia? Why? And what would this manner of attack achieve? What would starving a people serve?—and though she had tried to mold the answer "Black Fang" into the blanks, she had not truly believed her suspicions. Never had. Her commander was giving her reasons to do so and she didn't like it. She didn't want this. She had wanted to simply—simply receive a slight rebuke, maybe flush at their laughter, wanted someone to assure her it was not true. Why wasn't the commander simply tightening her lips into a grimace at the thought of so much wasted time?

"Commander, get a hold of yourself!" said the general, sharing a glance with Allison. _So she wasn't completely imperturbable,_ Allison thought for a dazzled moment. "What is wrong? What are you talking about? What have you done? Host Ishitani, the girl's going to pull her scalp off her skull pulling at her hair lik—Commander, get a hold of yourself! This is an order!"

Allison moved swiftly, relieved to be able to move, to be given something to do to keep her conscious from swaying away as she did not allow her body to. She reached for the commander's hands and after only a moment's struggle to loosen the hysterical woman's fingers from her scalp, the commander had given herself up to sobbing weakly and shaking her head, unseeing.

"Oh, Legault, why, why, why why _why_? I trusted—we were supposed to—_how could you!_"

Allison's insides froze. There were shards of ice in her throat as she spoke: "Legault?"

The general looked from one struck face to another. "Who is Legault?"

"I brought him here," Allison answered, wondering if this was a truth she would rather not know. What did Legault do? What did he have to do with this? Why was he gone when she'd come back? "He was…the thief. Alberta was…supposed to find him. She did, six years ago, she sent back the message 'I found him' and then…that was that. She disappeared. When I'd come back to talk to him, he wasn't…he had been released."

"Released?" The general crinkled her forehead. "A thief? Why would anyone release a thief? Released by whom?"

"Me."

Allison and the general looked at the commander, whose sobbing had subsided and instead was breathing in sniffles, her nose frozen stuck and streaks of frozen fluids arcing over the hands and wrists she had used to wipe at her face.

"I know how he did it," Fiora continued. Her voice was a soft squeal, prone to break like a thin sheet of ice if she could not evenly release the force of her words. "I don't know why, but I know how. I trusted him…as I do everyone I served with in a massive campaign under the Pheraen, Ostian and Caelinic lords five years before."

"The one that survived the Dread Isles?"

"Yes. It was our tactician's brilliance on the battlefield and in politics. I've yet to see another man like Mark."

"So I've heard," said the general.

"There was an old woman too, who traveled with us, named Hannah. She had concocted the device she called a mine. An object that could detect motion and would explode, cracking to pieces that would fly out at such speeds as to slice limbs apart, and trigger a fire simultaneously… A military marvel, Mark had called it, and he was apt to use it in battle—and do more! He had developed it further with the help of an Ilian shaman named Canas… Mark had explained the new device to the company so we would understand its dangers. There were very few of us he allowed to use it…nor whom volunteered."

"What does this have to do with Le—" Allison stopped speaking upon seeing the general's glare.

"If I remember correctly, it was a 'timed bomb'," Fiora continued. "Two chemicals sealed in separate, adjacent compartments would be eating away the wall that separated them. They would eat it away faster if the bomb was in a warm place… Once the two met, they would ignite and explode. This was not meant to harm anyone however; this one was meant to trigger the mines, and was developed to be small enough to swallow, like a thick coin."

Fiora drew in a breath and with her hands, pushed herself up to stand, and took Allison's offered hand to steady herself, but let go quickly when Allison, forgetting the general's warning, asked again, "But what does this have to do with Legault?"

"Legault was one of the few taught to use it."

Allison looked away. Fiora continued, "To swallow it and keep it in his stomach to keep it warm, and to bring it back up before time was up, to hide it where necessary, disappear from the scene—and then everything was blasts of explosions and howls of pain, if those unlucky enough to have triggered the mines had enough of him or herself left to howl. Legault must have had mines as well—in the place Mark had advised…"

"What place?" asked the general. "How did we miss it? What could we possibly miss? Where did we not look?"

Fiora leveled her eyes with the general. "A place Ilian—no, _female_ knights—would never look."

The general looked away. "So this was Mark's plan? Now I understand why Etruria and Bern are desperate to find him."

"No! This was _not _Mark's plan! This is a perversion of his tactics."

"I see. …Is he in Lycia?"

Fiora shook her head. "I do not know. Nor my little sister, who knows him better."

"But Legault." Allison shoved the nasty truth to the forefront again.

Fiora looked away. "Please do with me what you will, General. I have failed the Lawliet, and Ilia. I deserve to…" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"_I _shall decide what you deserve and what you shall do. Tell me, Fiora, why did you trust him?" asked the general.

Allison noted the loss of title, as did the subject of the question. Allison gritted her teeth against the stretch and pull of her brain and wished she could squeeze her head flat to make it stop if necessary. How was she going to tell her father this? Legault was not what she had thought the man was; her sister was…who knew where or what her sister was—and she, Allison, had been the one to deliver the means of destruction to the devil on a snow white platter.

Fiora stood straight as she answered. "The people I fought with in Eliwood's Elite… Forgive me, General, but I would still trust them with my life."

"You don't need to trust them with the lives of others as well, Fiora."

Fiora said nothing. Allison could not understand if this meant was in acceptance or not. The general's face was expressionless as always, but her voice and her eyes spoke volumes of disgust.

"Fiora, you are demoted," announced the general, "to messenger duty. You will fly immediately to the Dame and the Union Council and make them aware of this act. They would know better than I what to make of this or how to determine the motive."

Fiora did not seem to comprehend and replied, "Yes, General." Allison turned away, refusing to look upon this shame.

"I will assume your position. The Lawliet is precarious already, and we will need more to safely evacuate the pass—on _both _sides. Alert the Dame that I am pulling all Ilian knights without current contracts back into Ilia for this purpose—to help maintain what peace we can. Tell her I recommend putting all of Ilia's foot knights and border legions on active duty, and to send this message out to the Five State Generals." The First General, the sole leader of the Five State Generals, looked down the rock behemoth, to the white, fat parasite that plugged the valley and fed off of human despair. "We will need them for the riots."

"Yes, General."

First General Victoria looked at Allison. "Where were you when this happened?"

Allison, startled, indicated her fingers and the almost-healed gashes in her legs and knees. "I was falling."

"Well, then, Lieutenant, I am sorry to say you have just landed in hell. Ilia is _not _going to recover from this…not this year. And your new trainees will not be spilling other people's blood to keep Ilia alive. We'll be spilling our own in a month."

Allison's gasp came as a hiss through her teeth. It was a base thing to say.

"The two of you will say absolutely nothing of this to anyone except the Council or the Dame, is that understood? …You are dismissed."

Allison watched the Fiora's back stiffen. She departed silently, with measured steps to her pegasus and not a single glance back at them as she shot away. Allison did nothing.

"Host Ishitani, I want you to find the second in command of the Lawliet and tell her, if there is no account of Fiora having reached the Council or the Dame within the next week, to issue an arrest warrant."

"Understood. Forgive me, First General, but what about Legault?"

"He has already done his damage. Although without knowing his motives, I cannot say if this is all he intends to do." The First General whistled for her pegasus, who had took the sky to stretch its wings again. "I'll put out an exceptionally high bounty for him, on the grounds of thievery and gather a special task force to find him. I'll let the knights know to keep a third eye out for him." She ran a hand through her pegasus's mane and stopped and turned back to match her cutting eyes with Allison's. "But you want to find him, don't you?"

"I do, General."

"Even after having seen what personal emotions have led to in these mountains?"

Allison flushed as she had wanted to for a different cause. The General mounted her pegasus. "Where would you search for him?"

"I had already begun. I've heard mention that he had been seen in the south side of the pass during the avalanche. I presume he is returning to the Black Fang, a vigilante organization that targets abusive nobles of that nation…or so it was for most of the rumors I've heard of it. A year after Alberta…I began hearing news of dishonorable things. The more I think of it, the more it seems connected…likely."

"Have you any other leads?"

"No," she said with a drop of her shoulders. But then she remembered: "Wait, the comman—Fiora gave me one. Legault had been in the campaign. If I could find others from that campaign, I might be able to find more information about him. And they must know something about the Black Fang. Perhaps they can tell me what it has been doing over the last six years."

"Oh." The general scanned the skies. "Well, then, Lieutenant, it seems you're going to have a tough time catching Fiora, now, won't you?"

"I…what?"

The general nodded at the courier pegasus Allison had brought. "Your role as Host of the Fledglings can be filled for you. But your role as the woman who knows how to find this culprit is invaluable. I want you to find his motives and stop him from causing further damage."

It was as if she should have been able to float off into the sky considering the weight that seemed to dissolve into nothingness inside Allison. She looked from the pegasus to the general to the horizon leading to Fiora to the general, whispered a simple "Thank you, General!" and, despite the prickling of her scabbed knees at the run she had broken off into toward the pegasus, she swung herself onto the courier's back and almost pulled it up into the sky with sheer willpower alone. Allison fixed her sights on the empty southern horizon and flew like the wind.

* * *

"Oh, but it _is _lonely," said Florina as she patted Wallace's bald head in greeting and moved his glass of water closer to him as the big man poked at his brussel sprouts. Florina had discovered his eating habits mirrored those of belligerent young boys. Meat and potatoes and virtually nothing else. Goddess forbid it be anything _green_. "We _used _to be something more." Florina took a seat at the head of the long dining table and sighed. "When it was Wil and Sain and Lyn here too. No. That's not right. You are the general of Caelin again and Kent is the steward, but _I _used to be something more…"

"But you _are _something more, Little Miss," said Wallace, chewing on a slice of lean steak with gravy.

Florina sighed at his manners, or lack thereof, and regarded the table that had once sat the whole of Lyndis's Legions. It was a homey room, painted autumn gold, and long shafts of nostalgic light fell through the numerous windows of one wall and across the backs of empty chairs. The sun was beaming for September, and entirely too hot for Florina's liking. But it was always too hot in Lycia for Florina's liking, so she bothered no one about it. "Then what am I now?" she asked, drawing circles on the dusty table with her finger. This informal dining table was seeing less and less use with the members of the Eliwood's Elite having settled into such different lifestyles and not often passing by. Serra was an exception, of course, but Serra preferred ogling at the formal dining tables. "Then what am I, the steward's wife? Kent won't let me stay in the military any longer."

"And so it should be, Little Miss. At least for the next six months or so."

She let out a little shriek. Wallace set down his fork and very purposefully stuck his pinky in his ears to clear it of its imaginary deafness, then laughed quietly (for comfortable as she had become with him, she was still somewhat sensitive to his boisterous laughter). The indignant former pegasus knight sat with her hands folded upon the table and a tight grimace on her lips, looking very much the stewardess she had grown to be, and unintentionally giving a glimpse of the disciplined, gentle mother she would become.

"What?" Wallace said. "Everybody knows."

Her shock had reverted her for a moment to the young knight she was before. "Th-Th-Th-There are simply _some_ things…th-that should not be spoken aloud!" She considered something as she regained herself, then added, "Even if everybody knows!"

Wallace could not help burst out laughing, but he took control of his fits. "You are becoming something greater than any man, Florina."

Florina looked down at her hands and blushed, stroked her stomach, and gave a little sigh of when she did not find much there yet.

Wallace nodded gravely at his brussel sprouts. "This is a wonderful thing. A mother, Florina. You bring life to this world, and all we can do is take, maintain or destroy. That is _my_ business, Florina, but you? You_…_are becoming something more."

He was about to say more, but he stopped talking to regard the head that came poking through the doorway. The butler, seeing Wallace in good cheer, had the courage to nod at him once, very quickly, before addressing Florina: "There is a pegasus knight who wishes to meet with you, milady."

Florina jumped out of her seat. "My sisters did not tell me they would come!" she gasped.

She was nearly to the door when Wallace cleared his throat and she squeaked, "Oh!" before falling to a more appropriate speed for a woman with child and following the butler to the courtyard. Wallace looked back at his brussel sprouts and contemplated where to hide _this _particular batch.

The halls were full of sunlight and the courtyards were in full array of red and gold, as she had seen mere glimpses of back home. No one could deny Kent had done marvelously at restoring peace and prosperity to Caelin. The echoes of laughter of the town children, playing in the gardens Kent had opened to the public, was tribute and affirmation to it. The Ilian bellflowers hanging from vines and pillars were still in bloom, having surprisingly adapted to Caelin's climate so well as to be more comfortable here—and smiling at her in thanks. But Florina didn't have time for that.

Florina hurried down the stone steps towards the landing patch and her heart leapt to see the pegasus that was not hers, but something was amiss. She did not recognize this one. "Oh," she sighed, unable to rein in the tone of disappointment when she saw the woman with the lilac hair tightly bound by red ribbons that declared an all-access clearance to an Ilian messenger knight.

The woman whispered a swift "Thank you, Bruno," and slipped over the side, smiling apologetically at Florina. She gave a slight bow.

"I am sorry I am not your sister, milady…but I was hoping you could help me find mine."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!**


	3. The Fate of Ilia

**A/N: Minor edits. Even more wheeeee.**

* * *

**A Tale of Two Lances:**

**Chapter Three:**

**The Fate of Ilia**

**"_Did ye hear the king's not lookin' fer a bride yet? …Mighty suspicious, 'f ye ask me. Mighta thought women are jis' not ta his tastes, but s'pose that's not the way'a God." ~ The Snake Charmer_**

* * *

Michelle stood with Hugh bawling on her hips and a grimace on her lips. "Canas, I thought we had an agreement about magic in the nurser—"

Canas looked up from his wife's volume of anima magic, the new one that he wasn't supposed to be reading before she finished it herself, and were he the kind of vulgar person, he would have at this moment uttered a certain word that rhymed with "Yuck." But he was not, and he simply froze in his place at her reading table, eyes wide as Hugh's as he stared at his wife in the doorway and waited quietly for punishment. She had told him before that making himself quiet did not make him invisible and what did he hope to accomplish by trying and it was darn good thing he looked so cute in that pose because she would have blasted him off into—and then she would need to cover little Hugh's ears for a moment, because she was a _very _vulgar person—and what kind of child will Hugh turn out to be at this rate and could she actually trust him with the baby for four and a half minutes—not even five!—as she ran down to the vendors to get something for his cold and was he even listening to her?

Yes, yes he was. He was _always_ listening to her. He just…didn't always respond.

It was a very good thing that a shaman's body was able to handle a significant amount of anima magic before he could actually feel pain and face bodily consequences. Canas found himself thanking the elder atoms he had accumulated on his skin every other day. But life was good. Considering magic users tended to be a generally quiet, studious people, theirs was an unusually rowdy house. Michelle clearly accounted for most of the rowdiness, but Canas contributed his share with some minor explosions every week or so, which was why they were rarely disturbed by the other villagers. But in the end, nobody ever got hurt in the house on the hill, and that was what mattered the most. Because with Michelle, _any _situation was a volatile situation.

"Canas, you _promised_! You promised you promised you promi—no, no, no, darling, Mommy isn't angry at you, little baaaaby—will you warm up some milk for him, honey? Without melting the glass bottle this time?—my little darling, my little, no no, not at you, Huuuuugh, not at youuuu—oh! Thank you, honey, that was fast!—There you a-are, coochy coochy coo, that's right sweetie, now we go sweepy time, don't we little—CANAS! You are NOT getting away through the back door COME. BACK. RIGHT. NOW!—oh, oh! No no Huuu-uugh, not at youuu-uuuu, your father is an iiii-diot, but I won't let you coochy cooo-oo bee-ee lii-ike that!—Oh, honey, you're back already… Why?"

Canas shifted his monocle—the first hint at utter confusion—as he led in a pegasus knight neither of the magic users were acquainted with. The pegasus knight looked from Canas to Michelle and then began looking elsewhere for half a moment before realizing the petite woman standing with the crying baby on her hip was the source of the massive voice and out-of-key singing of the tune "Lanky Doodle." Unfortunately, in her mistaken search she had also discovered there was a set of animal skulls being used as paperweights on the desk with a book titled, _**Anima**__te Hell's Gate! _And there were jolly roger skulls on the curtains. And…she couldn't believe it at first, but was that baby sucking on a rattle shaped like a skull as well? There was something was very wrong with these people, and she did not want to find out what.

She began to speak. "Am I…in the residence of…"

"Michelle and Canas, anima and elder arts, top-of-the-hill couple with the baby named Hugh?" Michelle bounced Hugh upon mention and he giggled through a mouth full of the milk. Milk dribbled down the length of his chin and Michelle licked it off, making him giggle again. "Oh you're so cuuuuuute—"

The pegasus knight blinked a couple of times, slightly scarred for life, and found affirmation in the townspeople's words of these people. Or at least…the wife. Canas, she realized, had disappeared. So had the book that had been on the table. His ninja skills disturbed her.

"I bear…warnings?" The knight was not entirely sure these people needed them anymore. In fact, she wasn't sure what she was doing here; she clearly did not belong, was not needed, and perhaps was not wanted as well.

"You want to sit down? I can make us some tea!"

"Oh no no no… No…really," said the knight with a mannequin smile and a permanent stare at the rattle the baby had reverted to sucking on instead of drinking his milk. "I'm…fine. I couldn't—"

"And have you walking out of here without some hospitality? Now that just won't do, dearie, you come here and sit down and I'll—what did you say your name is?—Honey, can you get out that new brew? Honeeeeeeeeeeeey? Oh shoot that husband of mine! Why I outta—"

"Elizabeth!" replied the knight, intent on having a heart attack and simply dying to get away from the alternative. "I bear news and I truly, truly am in a hurry and—um—the news, yes, the news is what I came here to give you—ah, your mother wanted to let you know—she didn't write it down, but she wanted me to verbally give you this message so I'm telling you _her _words, not mine, right? Not mine. _She _wanted to let you know that it would…perhaps be…beneficial to both you and your husband and the baby and your mother if…perhaps your mother could…care for the baby for a…week or so. She wanted to offer you some time—ah—to replenish your energy and relax, recuperate, and enjoy a romantic—no, no, miss, really I couldn't—"

"My mother's dead."

"Ohhhh I-uuuuuh…"

"She was wearing a black cloak the size of an ox?"

"I…think?"

"That would be _Canas's _mother. You can tell her she can just go to hell. Direct quote here: You. Can. Just. Go. To. Hellllllll. Lllllllllah la la la la."

The pegasus knight inched back the hallway she came from, glancing over her back for any other surprises—but never presenting it to Michelle, who advanced with the baby on her hips and a cup of tea procured at unbelievable speed in her other hand. The pegasus knight said with nervous chuckle, "I will…definitely make her aware of your…ah, eloquent response. Actually, the Ilian Union has sent me to you to also …ah, request your aid in helping maintain the peace of the nation. You see, the Lawliet has collapsed and it is causing great disturbance throughout the land, with—" By now, Michelle had forgotten the cup of tea in her hand and followed unconsciously, as if hypnotized by the message. "With, ah, Rearden already in riots and—you and your husband, both, were summoned—" Elizabeth was halfway to the door. "If you could merely keep control of this village, make certain there is no rabble-rousing. After all, you two _are_ the most powerful people in the vicinity, within a hundred miles around—" She got a hold of the knob, twisted, "Forgive me, but I'm not thirsty, miss, I'm truly not!"

She yanked the door open and ran down the hill. Michelle watched her with interest for a moment and puzzled over why the knight had suddenly started to zigzag her way down (in fear of ensuing fireballs). Hugh was whimpering at the sudden cold, so Michelle couldn't bother herself to spend the time to find out and merely shut the door, open it again to confirm that there was, in fact, a very confused pegasus still picketed to the dead tree in the yard, and then shut the door again.

* * *

The steward was a tall man with burnished copper-tone hair. Allison had already forgotten his name. The general sitting next to the steward did not have _any_ hair. He was also not very tall, but he certainly made up for it in other directions. His name Allison didremember: Wallace.

Upon hearing her inquiries of the man named Legault and of the organization the Black Fang, Fiora's younger sister pursed her lips and said nothing about it, demanding instead that Allison wait until she could confer with the general and the steward as well. And now Allison sat across from the three at an informal dining table, and though there were brimming plates of china resting between them, she was feeling as if _she _were the one to be interrogated instead.

Florina was drawing circles in the dust at her table, a habit Allison found very un-Ilian. Ilians did not draw circles in the dust on their tables. It was very rude. Then again, most Ilians did not have tables.

"Florina," said the steward in a counseling tone. Florina glanced at him and put her hands in her lap. His lips almost twitched into a smile. He leaned close to her head and Allison was clearly able to see his wife stop breathing with him so close. At another time, she would have thought it cute.

The steward said to his wife, "I meant…explain."

"Oh! Y-Yes. Of course." She cleared her throat, blushing terribly, and motioned at Allison. "She wants to know about Legault and the Black Fang, so I brought her to you so…I don't really remember much. With you and Lyn there, I didn't need to worry about what I needed to do because…well, you always told me. Um, she is looking for her sister, Alberta, who is six years older than her—this tall was it, Allison? With longer hair than yours, right?" Upon affirmation, she smiled slightly, bitterly, and added, "We end up looking for our sisters a lot, don't we?"

"Yes," replied Allison, struggling not to spear her steak with her fork. "Yes, we do."

The steward looked from one Ilian to another. When the general spoke, Allison was surprised the chinaware did not fly off the table with the force of his voice. "What do you want to know about them?"

"Anything," was her swift reply. "Everything. I think my sister had somehow become involved six years ago. She disappeared soon after. I want to find out…what happened."

_These _were the people the ex-commander trusted with her _life_?

Now Wallace and Florina both turned to glance at the steward in the middle. Allison looked from one to the next. What was the significance of that look? By the gods, all she wanted to know was where her sister was! And to do that she needed to find Legault. Were they going to say anything or not?

"He wanted to start over. He might be in Bern," Florina said softly to her husband, who nodded.

"Yes, that _is_ where the Black Fang is," Allison prodded to speed things up.

"Was," the steward corrected.

"What?"

The steward rose to stand. "I was involved in mapping the journeys of Eliwood's Elite," he said, "so I should be able to mark the approximate location of what used to be the Black Fang headquarters. There are also two people who were very close to Legault. Last I heard they should be in Bern as well. Nino and Jaffar."

Florina gasped. "Kent, that's—"

"Distant, dangerous, and she will go there anyway," the steward nodded.

Wallace added, "If I'm not mistaken, she was talking about Jaffar…"

A fact that meant nothing to Allison at the moment. She was too busy wondering if, with her host standing, she should stand too, if she was being dismissed already.

Kent cleared his throat. "As long as he is with Nino, he is a tame m—he is tame. In any case, the best we can do is to provide as much information as can prepare her. Ah, forgive me, I stood to bring a quill and ink if you would simply procure a map."

"Yes, of course," Allison said, opening the wallet at her hip and bringing out the thin, waterproof sheet and unfolding it at a clear patch of the table.

Kent nodded and moved to the door, was intercepted by the butler handing him the objects he was looking for, stared at them for a moment, then turned around, chuckling. "I still cannot get used to that," he explained, rounding to Allison's side and examining her map. "Oh, this is new…"

"It is only several months old," explained Allison. "We are equipped with the newest each time we depart Ilia."

"Yes, of course, you travel so much…I admire the Ilian management when it comes to the military. Florina has much to teach me as of yet, I'm sure. …Ah, here, near the center of Bern, here there is a water temple—that is not what you are looking for and Nino would never return to that place—but here, _here_…you should find abandoned fortresses." Kent inked a rook in its place. "This here was confusing terrain. This used to be the prince's manor, before he was crowned king a year ago, and this was—is—the king's castle. There was a shrine here…"

Florina and Wallace glanced up at Kent. Kent answered their glances with one of his own, reassuring them of something.

"If you find this shrine, you've gone too far south. Now I'm marking the villages we traversed—this one makes you pay a fine to use this road, so go north here instead to this one."

"Was that the one with the snake charmer?" asked Florina.

"Yes, it was. Before I forget, watch out for the taverns in this one. I am certain you generally are alert for taverns everywhere, but Bern is as enthusiastic in their boisterousness as Badon, so…be careful. Also," he finished encircling the seven or so villages, "the whole nation is teeming with wyverns; stay close to the villages and _fly low_: the wyverns like their airborne sovereignty over everything else. Do _not _fly over mountains—there are flocks of wild wyverns near mountain caves and peaks. They can't see their own noses in the dark, but I believe pegasi do not have such difficulties? Then I would advise traveling by night if you can."

Kent screwed the lid of his ink jar. Allison blew on the map and said, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," said the steward. "I haven't told you of Legault and the Black Fang yet, and I find it strange Fiora hadn't told you right away. I assume you are prepared to hear the worst, if that is what the truth turns out to be, Miss Allison?"

Allison stuck a piece of steak in her mouth and nodded. It was a tactic she often used at social gatherings, filling her mouth with food to allow her to think while she chewed. Or to simply remove the necessity of speaking. This was one of those times. She folded the map and replaced it in her wallet and waited. Florina would not meet her eyes; Wallace was chewing thoughtfully on his steak. If she wasn't mistaken, she could have sworn the brussel sprouts on the steward's plate had doubled…

"The Black Fang," said the steward, resuming his seat across from her, "would perhaps be the place to start. It seemed to hold some honor at first, and, according to one of the men I served with, Legault had been one of the founders of the Fang, along with the famous Brendan Reed, his wife, and his brother-in-law Jan."

"Who was it?" asked Wallace.

Kent muttered "Matthew" and continued on, picking up his fork and knife for the first time. "Seven or eight years ago, a…woman named Sonia infiltrated its ranks and enslaved the commander in some way. His two sons, charismatic leaders both, and fine individuals from what I've heard, could not disobey their father. The Black Fang's activities spiraled away from their righteous ideal and into wanton assassinations, thievery, and several conspiracies. It was involved in Laus several years ago and triggered an invasion into Caelin, though you would wonder what it was doing in Lycia. It had even reached Bern's previous king. According to another of our army, Legault had become...house cleaner of the Fang. That meant he would remove the incompetent, the disloyal, the threats, or those lacking in some way."

There was a clink of metal. The dull roar in her ears had grown so loud she was only able to recognize the steward mouthing her name, alarmed, and Florina jumping to her feet so quickly she crashed her ribs into the table and knocked over their drink, the wine growing flat, bloody roots under the pristine china plates. Allison's own hands suddenly came into focus when she saw Florina's cover and hold them together, or rather holding one hand together, or rather, pressing together two separate chunks of Allison's pointer finger together.

"No, vulneraries aren't going to help with _this_! Where's the priest? Is the butler getting bandages?" came the steward's voice.

Allison suddenly became aware of his figure disappearing into the hall, and Florina wrapping a cloth napkin so tightly around her left pointer that for a moment Allison believed they had magically merged together again, until one chunk came sliding out of place like an offensive wood chip in the hilt of a wearied lance.

"Cut right through her finger!" boomed the general from the other side of the table, unseated himself and waving his arms at the ceiling as if his gods had been horridly insulted and assaulting it with his incredulity. "Cut right through her finger like she was going to _eat _it!"

"Where is he?" Allison asked.

There was no word to answer her, merely the general taking a good hold of the back of the seat of his chair, leaning forward over it, and squinting at her. The sniffling beside her, of the now hiccupping stewardess, stopped. For a wild moment, she thought they mistook her question to mean where Legault was. So she clarified.

"Bring him back. The steward. What did Legault do? I have to—I have to know—"

Florina screamed. Allison had taken several steps towards the doorway of the room before she realized that, though the large napkin was clumsily tied around her finger, Florina was the only thing that had been holding together the flesh that dangled by a sliver of skin. It was the first time she recognized her hand was in need of attention and cried out with the acknowledgement that she should have been feeling pain.

With a rush came an old, bald man with a staff in his hands and the steward at his tail.

"Florina!" The steward wore a look of confusion.

"I-I-I w-w-was—I—"

"Well, hold her hand now!"

"No, Lord Kent, that won't be necessary," spoke the old man. The priest. "I can't put flesh back together. I can only heal the muscle left and hope it grows back. And fix the pain."

"_What?_" The steward regarded the man with outrage for a moment. He turned away and seeing the butler called, "Where's the seamstress? Or some maid? Anyone who knows the needle!"

"No no no," called Allison. "Please sir, I've—agh!—"

"And tell the seamstress to bring the needle!"

"Oh! I've bled all over the tablecloth—"

"And some thread! I can tolerate no more incompetence!"

"—the floor—I'll clean it up. This is nothing, Lord Kent, a minor injury—"

"And Yates, you can bring whiskey. We need alcohol. Whiskey is better. Where is our whiskey?"

"—won't even affect my aim—it'll grow back—well, I don't know of that—but this is the smallest thing that could happe—" Allison stopped when she saw the look on the steward's face. She was being stupid.

"No, Miss Allison," the steward began in as outwardly calm a manner as if they were suddenly discussing the preferable method to groom a horse versus a pegasus. "This is _nonsense…_and you _shall…_be treated _properly before-you-leave-this-_CASTLE!" announced the steward, his voice having steadily risen to a climax as he turned furiously into the hall yelling, "_**WHERE'S THE SEAMSTRESS?**_"

* * *

Sain was struck by the epiphany the moment he turned the corner. "So that's why this place is so familiar…"

He smiled and dragged his horse afoot to the object of his attraction. The old man was still wearing his raggedy clothes and wiping his nose on his disgusting sleeve, and he was still harping on a strange reed flute with a bulb—a _coconut_, was it?—in the middle. The knight wasn't fooled into thinking the snake charmer hadn't removed the fangs from the three cobras that were swaying their heads with their eyes trained on the revolving instrument. What astounded the knight was the unending tune.

"_Not_ magic," the Bernese man had said with a disapproving glare when Sain had asked him five—or was it six years now?—six years ago the secret to his interminable breath. "Get it inni yer head, 'cuz I ain't sayin' this more'n oncet, y'hear? They call it 'circulah breathin'."

Not that the proffered explanation was any clearer to Sain; magic would have made more sense.

However, there was _one _thing that made sense to Sain at the moment. Dusk had become night, and he had not been able to see the dark cloak of the snake charmer's solo audience member. But there was no hiding the luminous hair, perfectly white and almost glowing in the moonlight. Sain had spotted Legault's head.

He was unsure whether he should approach. This was not someone he had taken the time to talk to in his time with the Elite. The few times he had been confronted with the man were those of unease, discomfort, and through those, suspicion bordering animosity. If he weren't a thief, Sain might now have offered to share a drink with him in the local tavern—the Rat-Tail was a feisty one. But Sain was relatively sure he'd end up "offering" much more when he was drunk. Like his horse. For some inexplicable reason, he was suddenly absolutely certain Legault would take off with his horse.

He felt a sudden need to turn to his most faithful companion and whisper, "Don't you worry, Grimm, I'll allow no harm to befall you." But Legault had already looked in his direction, locked eyes, nodded curtly, and slipped into the first alley he could find without looking back.

Sain turned to his horse anyway. "Looks like that problem settled itself out nicely."

The old man, playing his flute in the light of a hot torch flickering with moths, had started to play his flute with one hand. The three snakes, coiled for the most part inside cylindrical burlap sacks, were batted back into place with the lids of their cages. When the music stopped, the crackling of the torch filled Sain's consciousness.

"Why was he here?" Sain asked the old man.

The man adjusted his breathing, which did not allow for use of vocal chords yet. He nodded many, many times, looked up at Sain, and raised his brows in recognition. "'f ye ain't with him no moh," he said, "I ain't got nothin' ta tell ye."

Sain wasn't surprised. "What news?"

"Did ye hear the king's not lookin' fer a bride yet? …Mighty suspicious, 'f ye ask me. Mighta thought women are jis' not ta his tastes, but s'pose that's not the way'a God."

Sain didn't expect him to be a religious sort of guy. "He was a nice kid a while ago."

The old man chuckled humorlessly. "I'm sure ye'd know. Now ye either pay up or get. I'm done for the day."

Sain mock-saluted the man and pulled on the Grimm's reins, but stopped so shortly the horse knocked into him. "How about a drink at the Rat Tail?"

"No."

Sain blinked. Did the old man just refuse a drink?

The snake charmer stacked the three burlap containers of the snakes and, in one agonizingly slow battle against his knees, hoisted himself up with a magnanimous groan. "I on'y got one liv'r. And I'll be bettin' mine's in better con'nishin than yers."

And with that, the old man hobbled away in the opposite direction from Sain's destination. Sain watched the man until he turned a corner…and glanced down at his stomach.

Then he shrugged. Who needed a liver anyway?

* * *

Jenoah had neither seen nor heard the name for years. He placed a finger over the lines of his daughter's handwriting and stopped again and checked the arrangement of the letters. Yes it did start with "L." That was an "A" followed by a "U." But what was all this "thieving" stuff? No, she couldn't be talking about the same Legault. She must have been mistaken.

He set the letter aside and sipped his tea, regarding the next morning's frost as he tapped his toe upon the linoleum. Some form of desperation forced him to rise to his feet and set his tea upon the crude table of his making. He was not the finest craftsmen when it came to anything that required physical and/or practical application. His craft was in words and politics; he was a scholar. Alberta, now she was a fine speaker, and Amy was simply sweet with her words, but as for Allison, well…what was there to say about his third daughter? Ah, but now he could finally let her know he now resided in the castle, since he only replied when she wrote.

Lord Gant was supposedly returning today from the emergency meeting at Union Headquarters in Ragnar, the state directly east of Dagny. Jenoah already knew what it was about. The people were not to know of it yet, but someone high up in the Ilian bureaucracy—probably the Anconian dimwit old councilman Wesley—couldn't be bothered to keep his mouth shut. There was restlessness in Jenoah, just as there was restlessness in the people of the Dagny's capitol of Soren. But one's restlessness was the cause of the other's.

He didn't know the details yet, but he knew the Little Lady had something to do with it. The Lady of Ragnar, in line to inherit the next four years' rule of Ilia. She was not the woman that had been prepared for the task. She was the intended ruler's sweet little sister. The intended ruler was dead, just last week. Yes, the Little Lady might be too young and naïve, but she wants to rule—and what has she left now that Lady Cornelia was gone? What in the world did the Little Lady have now? How could anyone be so cruel as to deny her the one thing she could want when the entirety of her family had finally succumbed to that strange, horrifying hysteria?

Pity. That was all she had.

And she had a _lot_ of it.

Jenoah regarded his cup of tea again, picked it up, and with a magnificent arc, it flew into the stone wall and rained down with in porcelain tinkles. He regarded the ruins, like the white bones of a miniature catastrophe, and wondered what he would have to do to repay the lord now that he, like a knight he had never been, had sworn fealty to the man. What more could he give in repayment for a broken tea cup? He had not money, nor property worth speaking of. Only his services and the remainder of his life, already given.

It didn't matter. What mattered now was how to calm the people. As per the Little Lady's orders, Ragnar had transferred a considerable amount of its domain's food-stocks to the northern neighbor of Anconia. The Little Lady had expected the Lawliet, which opened unto and ended with her lands, to resupply her own stocks. That was not going to happen anymore. Now the next seat of power was a state without food. And the people were a week from riots.

That was not what concerned Jenoah, however. That was simply a matter of fact by now. The Little Lady had counted her chickens before they hatched out of her egg. There was nothing he could do about it. But Dagny—Dagny was next. Anconia, the northern shore to the sea, was full with fresh supplies from Ragnar. The easternmost state of Rearden, the state ending its term of rule, had Sacae to turn to, and was generally the most prosperous of the states. Farthest west was Galt, the state bordering Etruria. There might have been tensions regarding something or another between that state and the Enlightened Land, as Etrurians liked to call their homeland, but trade thrived there without political constraints. Dagny only had what food its people had saved and could gather from the Lawliet, hardly better off than Ragnar itself. It shared its longest border with the doomed state. It was the most vulnerable to instability.

What the hell was Allison doing traveling the world when her people needed her here, _now_?

Jenoah sighed. This was why he didn't write to her. He didn't like getting letters from her. That girl was never where she needed to be; her entire life she had been so. Whether it was her studies or training, she always ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. So many embarrassments she had brought to the family—a shameless romance at fifteen years old—what did she know at fifteen? If it weren't for the fact that he had known the man she had been engaged to had a father who beat his wife, he would have been anxious to give her away to any suitor who could scratch a living in this frozen hell.

He swallowed the bile that rose in his mouth simply thinking about that past. Snatching up the letter, he reread it for the eighth time and with his finger, stroked his reply into thin air until a full response was prepared word for word in his head. Then he folded up the letter again and wondered if he really was going to sit down and write it.

* * *

There were eleven eyes on Fiora at that moment, the moment when she awaited the verdict of the Council of the Ilian Union. The castle of Rearden, built into the side of a volcano and sucking from it a magnanimous warmth to supply the people, could not siphon enough heat to warm her skin and soul. Shame had never felt so cold.

The one-eyed councilman of Galt was the wise one. He was the only one who had remained in the state farthest from his own people the entirety of Rearden's rule the last four years. He had two trusty sons to take care of the westernmost state, but only himself to scrutinize the motion or lack thereof in his country's government. He said the Sacaen winds did good for his bones. That was a very good thing, because bones were practically all he had left of his physical self.

It was he who had decided the verdict. "Not death," he said, true to Ilia's opposition to the death penalty. But the fact that he had to say it aloud during the emergency meeting was enough to indicate they would give her nothing but damnation. "She'll be the beggar."

Fiora did not understand. She'd passed her eyes over each of the six council members seated at the round table—the royalty of each of the five states and the Dame, who was elected and appointed by the council members to lead and represent the domestic interests of the whole of the country. (First General Victoria, the final member of the Council, was not attending, of course.) Fiora was able to glean no meaning from their faces. Lord Ephraim of Galt, who naturally decided for the group, simply wore the kind of face he would wear were he watching snow melting off his roof. The lord of Rearden was a small man with a smaller amount of confidence. He managed to not only walk around with a question mark implied by his face, but to speak in nothing but questions. Lady Ragnar, Euphemia, was still a girl, seventeen and silent at meetings, examining what code of conduct the other council members provided. Anconia had sent the councilman's granddaughter on the plea that Lord Boyd was not in good health. Her face was relatively blank. The kind of blank that indicated sleeping while awake.

The last two members, Lord Gant, a tall hawkish man graying above the tips of his ears, and Dame Diana, a rather short woman with a degree from Aquliea Academy and a manner of speaking so sincere with goodwill as to deserve all the time in the world, had traded glances at Lord Ephraim's statement and nodded. Lady Ragnar nodded her assent immediately.

Said the Dame, "Lord Ephraim has devised a way in which you will be critical to minimizing the impact of your mistake. You are not forgiven. You will not be, ever. But you can work yourself out of your shame. If there is any pride at all in the remainder of your life, it shall be in that you are diligent in relieving the pain of others."

The burning in her throat would not allow Fiora to speak, so she nodded instead.

"Fiora," said the Dame, rising out of her seat to formally deliver the new task. "You are now our messenger to Etruria."

* * *

**A/N: This was such a fun chapter to write. Yes I do know of Shadows Under the Oak Tree (I pretty much worship trimurti...and ServantofGOD...and trimurti...) and I kept Lily in mind when I crafted Michelle. I wanted to make sure there was little in common between them. ...Pretty sure I succeeded :D Hope you enjoyed this installment! See you in the next chapter!  
**


	4. The Hundred Seals of Ostia

**A/N: For those of you who have read the previous chapters before 5-22-11, I would like to let you know I have posted a rewrite of chapter one today that hopefully does a better job of addressing ****five of the key elements GunLord500 and R Amethyst had spotted for me, including keeping Allison from becoming Mary Sue, Fiora's overly-hateful treatment of Legault, why Legault felt the need to steal in the first place, the overall confusion due to too much information presented in the first chapter, and what Ilia looks like for this story. I also updated chapter 2 and 3 as was necessary.**

**Thank you for reading this far, and many many thanks to GunLord500 and R Amethyst for their fantastic critiquing! (It's thanks to them that I'm writing when I'm not supposed to be.)  
**

* * *

**A Tale of Two Lances:**

**Chapter Four:**

**The Hundred Seals of Ostia**

**_Nature has very little to do with justice and fair, my lord, though it warms my heart to hear you speak that way.  
~Mikael Curtis_**

* * *

Heath didn't realize the enormity of his mistake until he was standing at the gate of Serra's abbey. Half a minute ago, he was absolutely certain there was nothing in the world that could make him more miserable than receiving the news.

Priscilla was getting married. He was invited.

Serra and Priscilla had become close friends, so he had sought her company in hopes that she would cheer him up and convince him that it was all for the best. He had forgotten that he, as Hector's personal messenger, was carrying a message for Serra. And that's when he realized he knew exactly what _her_ message's contents amounted to as well.

Erk was getting married. She was invited.

By the time this realization hit him, Serra was already striding down the pathway with a smile on her face. He realized _sharing _bad news was worse than receiving it; there was guilt and blame to be claimed for indirectly causing pain, and he was about to cause a lot of it. This terrible thought resulted in a fish-face stunned expression. To make matters worse, another thing he didn't realize was that she thought he was absolutely captivated by her beauty. She _was _wearing her new shawl, after all, and her first set of earrings, little silver hoops, a congratulatory gift from Lord Hector for having been made the Honorable Maiden of the Abbey who conducted and recorded all adoptions of the Second District Abbey.

She beamed at him and opened the gate, motioning with her head inside without a word. There were thirty-seven children in that structure, Heath remembered from his last visit. He did not want to be the one responsible for breaking their hearts when the Sister cried. There was no way Heath wouldn't start crying too. Perhaps their collective wails would fly upon the wind and land in the ears of Priscilla and Erk, and sully their wedding day with unnecessary grief.

Heath shook his head to clear it of stupid thoughts. Serra frowned, misunderstanding.

"Serra, I…"

"Not! Another! Word! Talking at the gate is a poor example of hospitality, Sir Heath! Please, please don't put me in such a spot—and with all the children watching as well!"

Upon seeing his reluctance, she stepped towards him and started to push him in the direction of the orphanage. Heath was not entirely sure how this fit into a proper example for the children, but he could not decide whether to resist or not.

"Come now, come in!" Serra was saying. "No one from Eliwood's Elite passes through this gate without tea. Well, except for Matthew, sometimes, but I can't serve him tea every time _he _decides to show up. You would think he was in love with me or something! It's _very_ disturbing."

Heath let himself be shoved down the gravel road and to the orphanage, an establishment wider than a church, with a thatched roof, two floors, and some six or seven girls and boys hanging out of windows with bright, expectant eyes and smiles hanging from their faces. Then the expressions changed. _Where was the flying lizard? _they must have been thinking, for he clearly could not hold their interest otherwise.

Heath cleared his throat as he pushed open the thick doorway and entered a narrow hall with glazed wooden floors and thick walls, and asked Serra over his shoulder, "Lord Uther was responsible for this?"

"He was wonderful!" Serra chimed. "Much better than the oaf we have right now." She answered his alarm with "Sir Heath, I only kid you!"

"Oh." He had to remind himself Serra had known his new liege intimately enough to make such jests. He stood awkwardly for a moment where the hall branched, unsure where he was to go. Serra whispered some orders to a girl of some fifteen or so years. The girl slipped into a doorway at one end of one hall as Serra led him down another, to the dining halls.

"Did the lord say anything about coming to see me? Honestly, you'd think he'd walk down the road and take a look at the street at his doorstep every now and then."

"Milord is very faithful in his duties," Heath was quick to respond. "He is consistent and systematic in touring the city, and any delay would only be the result of urgent matters or the miscalculations of his assistants."

Serra quirked a brow and a smile. "You give him more credit than he deserves. Yes, yes, I know, I just said something else that could be justified. But if only words meant a thing, Sir Heath! He's been telling me he'll come for the last four months, I'm telling you! …Don't get too fond of him, now, Sir Heath. He knows how to disappoint."

His footsteps came to a sudden halt. This time she was certain he was truly upset, but his eyes were locked on the marble depiction upon an entire wall. It was lit by a miracle not yet found even in the castles of any of the marquesses of the land: a sliver of glass ceiling. Through the ceiling came the shafts of unadulterated sun, whose natural touch softly lighted upon the marble woman in rough robes, her hands outstretched with a torch. With her torch she held at bay ghoulish faces forever frozen in their struggle to penetrate the halo of sanctity that surrounded, not the torch, but the woman herself. The most remarkable aspect, however, was the warrior. With a shield in his right hand and a sword in his left, he stood right-side-in and left-side-out of the halo, compassion on the right side of his face, and cold, stern necessity tearing his lips apart into a bared-teeth sneer on the left, his mismatched eyes focused on the ghouls.

Heath's voice was hollow with awe. "Who is this?"

"That's—you don't know who St. Elimine is? But that's right, you're from Bern."

"No, I know the Saint. We all know the Saint. Wait…doesn't she hold a staff?"

"That is the usual depiction, but this is before that, when Roland and the Saint just meet."

"That's _Roland_? Bern would never allow anyone to do such a thing to Hartmut!"

"This is to show not even Roland was as pure. Those faces surrounding the two are the personifications of the scourges of humanity."

Heath looked from Serra to the depiction to Serra again. "And _Lord Uther_ allowed this?"

"Sister Serra!" The girl Serra had ordered to bring tea had rushed out of the kitchens. "There are soldiers at the gate! They wish to see Sir Heath!"

Heath and Serra shared a glance. Heath, suddenly remembering his mission, handed her a rolled parchment.

"Ostian knights?" asked Serra, struggling to keep up with Heath's hurried steps to the exit.

The girl shook her head. "They're not knights."

"They're not knights?" Serra rushed forward and sprang out of the door, where Heath stood regarding their company in the sunlight. "Oh no…"

Heath didn't look at her as he said it. "It's Intelligence."

* * *

Hector was tired of playing mind games. Most people who tired of such games did so because they did not want to waste time on stupid people. In Hector's case, he _was _the stupid people. Or at least Marquess Tania's lawyer seemed to think so. Hector had never heard of a boundary dispute like this before. The royal Tanian lands had been enclosed for game by a natural barrier of pine trees and a river. Recent flooding had taken the pine trees down the river and dammed it shut so that the entire forest had become a reservoir of sorts instead. All the marquess's animals had fled in any way possible. The deer were damaging the farmlands, a wild boar had gored three men and a child in a village bordering, and the next village down was dying of thirst. Very little of this information, however, was included in this lawyer's report. The lawyer had other things to talk about.

Such as the formalizing of the 'natural extension' of his employer's royal property.

"Milord."

Hector, who had been pacing across the plush carpet of his brother's office—_my office—_nodded curtly to Oswin. There seemed to be some lift on one side of the general's mouth that seemed to dare Hector to ask whatever was so funny. It was an "I know something you don't know" sort of smile. Hector wasn't going to ask.

"Just let him in, Oswin," he said, eyes narrowed. Oswin nodded to Rennac, a young knight who had earned the general's personal trust. Rennac admitted a man of average height and, judging by the way his eyes scanned the area until he found Hector, a controlled curiosity. Hector motioned to the two settees placed beside a coffee table, shunning the formality of his desk in the farthest reach of the long room. "Sit down," he commanded. As the man took a seat, Hector strode to the back of the room and seized a squat, dark wine bottle he had placed upon his desk.

"Make sure to thank Marquess Burr," Hector said with a nod, "for _almost_ answering my summons."

"I will."

The curt reply was a surprise for a lawyer. Good. This one might not rot his brain by the time the hour was up.

"I heard this isn't your first time in Ostia."

"It is not."

"How do you like this city?"

"I would not complain about it."

"How's the weather today? I have not yet been outside."

"A very fine afternoon for September." To fill the silence as Hector returned to the coffee table, the lawyer continued, "It has no doubt snowed in Tania by now, so close to the Bernese border-mountains as we are."

"Yeah, I did get a message from Pherae about that, yesterday. They got a foot already."

"If Pherae has seen snow, then there is not a doubt."

The lawyer was not like some of his squirrelly scholars, spilling their papers across the desk in preparation as if their vocal chords did not function without some such unseemly sight. This one, though with a small case at his side, sat so still as if to become another aspect of the room, only his eyes following Hector's every movement to indicate intelligence locked within them.

Hector may have liked to kick the man's arse into the moat, but Ostian tradition, being what it was, required that he at least stuffed the man with the finest taste in the land first. He upheld the tradition if only to keep Oswin quiet. Nonetheless, Hector had found his own way of doing so.

"Well, now if you would—" Hector slammed the bottle onto the coffee table "—please tell me—" He plunged the screw into the cork "—_what—you—say to yourself_—" He unscrewed the cork, stressing each word with each turn "—_to help—you—sleep at night_."

There was a silence as he poured the liquid into two wine glasses and proffered the first to the lawyer. The lawyer had not jumped at the crash, but merely watched Hector's actions as if watching a curious oddity. He never dropped his eyes away from Hector's smoldering gaze as he accepted the goblet. The man then lifted the goblet to his lips and, tilting it slightly, seemed to draw it faintly with his breath, seemed to let it slide evenly across his tongue and tasted its lingering memory after it had passed through his throat.

Hector did not see it, but he knew it was Rennac whose gasp came out a hiss at the insolence of making the marquess of Ostia wait for an answer, as this man had done in one articulate move. Hector, however, did not break his gaze away from the lawyer to see Oswin's shoulders quaking with silent laughter.

The lawyer, satisfied, then leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. "The wine is everything I have heard it to be," said the lawyer, "as are you." With his eyes he motioned the lord to take his seat, another nonverbal swipe, this one unseen by the knights.

Hector remained standing and moved instead around his settee as he spoke. "I want to know why your master annexed those lands into his own personal reserves."

Said the lawyer, "By the letter of the law, milord—"

"What law? What law allowed him to annex the land?"

"It was not annexed, my lord, it simply _is_ _his_."

"My clerks and my judges have reviewed your laws."

"Very carefully, I presume."

The irony of Hector standing in his own office flickered in and out of consciousness. "The lands he claimed were a much needed source of sustenance for three villages, and yet the Marquess of Tania did not follow the procedures of a change in borders. He offered nothing in exchange, much less relief of any kind for those with flooded homes. What have you to say of it?"

The lawyer lifted his goblet once more and continued in his slow, measured manner. "No, the Marquess did not follow the procedure for a change in borders."

Hector contained his mild surprise by taking a drink of his wine.

"As for the three villages in need of relief, this is the viewpoint of a lowly lawyer, milord, and I have not the authority to speak upon what our lord will do for them. However, such relief has never been offered by our government and the Tanian Line has never pretended to offer it before. In fact, not even Pherae offers relief for natural disasters. Were the elite to swoop down to save the masses from every foul occurrence, the governing body could not afford to feed their own dogs with what would remain. Not even your coffers of gold, Marquess Ostia," the lawyer lifted his goblet in salute, "could provide the food nor the shelter that simply does not exist in this area. Money means nothing if that for which it is exchanged is simply not available."

"You are the Marquess's chief advisor, yes?"

"I am."

"And you say because nothing has ever been done before, we can do nothing now?"

"I simply say that I would not advise the Marquess of any such course of action because it would then induce an expectation come the next famine. It is simply an impossible situation that the Marquess cannot win."

"So I should plug my ears and twiddle my thumbs when my citizens cry with hunger? There are people who are starving right now and your advice will only bring them an empty future as well."

"Nature has very little to do with justice and fair, my lord, though it warms my heart to hear you speak that way."

Hector's face darkened with rage.

"I know I anger you, milord. Please detain it a moment longer." The lawyer now set down his goblet, half-empty, upon the table and refilled it for himself. "Do you know that your brother would never have approached this affair?"

Hector said nothing and drank down the wine, wondering if it was only doing less to help him maintain control.

The lawyer examined the bottle of wine and almost smiled. "I have known the hospitality of two Marquesses of Ostia before you, milord. This is a fine tradition I could not claim for my own home canton. But I had heard of _your_ hospitality, Lord Hector, and am glad to have experienced it for myself. If you are eager to please, the bottle of wine your guest will see is a tall, slender, swan-neck sort of a shape."

Hector could not hide his surprise this time.

"But this squat, dark bottle you have, with its thick tinted glass, this you can slam onto the table midsentence, catch your guests unaware, and drill your will and your method into them before they could properly recover. I'm surprised you knew this psychological tactic… What's more, for all I could have known, you had poured me poison, but I am more than happy to say I remembered this taste, for I had drunk with confidence in the rule of law and have now affirmed that it shall remain with you, Marquess Ostia."

"I didn't call you hear to hear your flattery. What are you getting at?"

There was a slight pull to the man's lips. "It is that rule of law that I have come to preserve, milord. I have not the slightest doubt in your scholars, your clerks, your lawyers, your what-have-yous, for having done a fine scouring of what loopholes there may have been that Marquess Tania had exploited, and I can tell you that there is none. It is not the law that the Marquess manipulated, but a contract with the people that he has faithfully adhered to. This contract is the same that Marquess Aaron of a hundred years before had used to settle between himself and the people what was to be his game and what would be free to public use. I have brought with me the contract itself, which states the border of the royal game reserve be the line of pine trees that divides the meadows from the gully where the Jiji River used to run. That line of trees remains intact where it dams the Kiki River. Thus, it belongs to Marquess Tania."

Hector stared at the lawyer, then at last, heavily took a seat on the settee. "The reason he is able to do this is not because _he _is moving the border but because the _border itself _moved?"

"That is what I meant when I said he had breached no law. Thus, I am absolutely certain your men were unable to provide you with a definitive charge against milord. This situation is grim, but to penalize Marquess Burr would be to penalize him for upholding the law. Your five years as the new marquess has no doubt already taught you that your actions reverberate through this league like the pounding of a heart through this nation's blood. To defile the sanctity of law in any case would be to defile them all," said the lawyer. "Let our laws be our laws, milord, and let our people be governed by our own marquess. To do otherwise would forever risk your looking as a dictator-in-the-making, whereas to let me free will show tolerance."

"No, what it will show, as you and I both know, is weakness."

"That is not what I know. This very meeting is the first direct confrontation of policy you host. If you are seen bludgeoning your way, the other marquesses will not even send their representatives to hear you. Whereas if you let me go, and let other similar confrontations be few and far apart, your voice will be heard candidly the few times that matter. They will respect you for it. They will listen."

Hector stood again. "You have proven your point already."

"And I can also understand that you believe this to be a stupid law to uphold." The lawyer too rose from his seat. "Milord, the law I speak of is the law that entitles a man to his property. But every law is in some way, shape or form simply another barrier to defend a man's right to his property. His life. His liberty. His land. Laws are born of a need. They grow old, and sometimes must be set aside to fit the new needs of a new generation. This law has done a great deal, milord, but the time has come to move on. It now is a cause of great sufferance to the people because of a line of trees, and simply that. Were the border nonexistent, why the marquess would be forced to start anew."

Hector did not understand, for a moment, the pointed gaze the lawyer was giving him. Once he saw past the man's shoulder Oswin's unbridled, one-sided smile, however, it became clear and he raised his goblet to him. "So this is why Burr did not show his face? Then you have my word: Ostia had no interest in meddling in Tanian affairs, a mere curiosity in the direction the marquess will take the canton."

The two drank for a moment in silence, Hector motioning the lawyer to resume his seat. Hector looked again upon the russet trim of the lawyer's hair, the angle of the jaw, the heavyset gray eyes that stood atop the protruding cheekbones. Like Kent, this middle-aged man too had lines of judgment writ across his forehead, but it was the way the man smiled—or rather, _almost _smiled—that alerted Hector of something strange.

"I would have met a man like you by now," Hector said, refilling his goblet again. "Why haven't I seen you before?"

The man shrugged carelessly. "Court is simply not my style. My solace and comfort is in my books, and my faith and love to law alone. You do not favor such opulent displays yourself."

"No, I don't. Marquess Burr wasn't hiding his brilliant lawyer to make sure he doesn't lose the queen of his chessboard, is he?"

The lawyer gave a soft laugh. "Lord Hector, you are a very straightforward man. Frankness is an honor and an ability that has its place, but not in politics. So much emotion is a disadvantage in every sort of battlefield."

"I knew it!" Hector leapt to his feet with a grin.

"No, milord, you did not," said Oswin dryly from his place. Rennac had by now learned to mask his confusion and merely watched Hector reach out and shake the lawyer's hand vigorously.

"Well, I see it now!" the Ostian Marquess shook his head. "You don't look much alike at all, but the endless calm, those almost smiles…by the gods, the way you talk! So you are Mark's older brother?"

"I don't suppose you cared to learn my name before I arrived."

"No, I didn't. But I do now; what is it?"

"Mikael. Mikael Curtis."

"Oh, is that what Mark's surname was?"

"And it may be the last commonality you find between the two of us."

Hector shook his head in disbelief, almost laughing. "Where is he now?"

"I never know. He likes to surprise me when he's not too busy serving as champion of the people."

"He handles battlefields and you handle politics? A duo like you—!"

"Would get disappointingly little done, contrary to expectation. He feels a need to be with the people to understand their pain and suffering, as if you must be in pain to understand. I prefer the clarity of distance."

"Regardless, all is well." Hector put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "I very much look forward to working with you through the years."

"I couldn't say the same." Again, that almost smile.

"Protecting the interests of your canton, I understand," Hector nodded. "You must stay a little and dine with my wife and daugh—"

An explosion of glass erupted in the back of the room, where Hector's desk was now littered with glimmering chunks. The porcelain seal of Ostia that had rested on his desk lay shattered on the floor…and beside that, a rock.

And then the screaming. The screaming Hector had had an entire year to get accustomed to.

"Serra!" he called out before he had even run to the window to see her upon the courtyard three stories below. His soldiers were advancing on her. He didn't understand what he was seeing. The wooden shaft of the castle guard's lance connected with the back of her head. The wooden shaft of a lance connected with the back of her head. Serra flew forward headfirst, unconscious before she could even hit the ground.

* * *

Florina was delighted to discover that she would not have to formally present herself to the marquess after all. She had already visited all the vendors she needed to—and more, at the request of her attendant, to acquire charms to assure the remainder of her pregnancy would be as smooth as the first three months. As Florina had never having been one for walking, especially given her current state, she was tired, and there was a peculiar tension in addressing Lord Hector over thirteen yards of red carpet (or to address him at all…), so she was happy to follow the manservant past the throne room. However, when the man walked through streams of sunlight of the drafty halls, Florina noted his exchange of worried glances with soldiers. He was taking her to a different wing of the castle. Something had happened. A moment more, and the manservant was leading her through an empty infirmary.

"Is Lord Hector ill?" Florina asked, for a moment engulfed in horror. But his parents had lived longer! His brother did too!

"No," said the manservant, "but he could have been much worse an hour or so ago. You, Ma'am, are the first he has agreed to meet with since his life had been tried."

"What? Who? What happened?"

The manservant now stopped at the great double-doors that led to the another section of the infirmary and curtly ordered a nurse to take Florina to the marquess. The man then left without responding to the lady's question.

Florina bit her tongue and kept her eyes up to the ceiling, as she had been taught to do by Farina to stop tears from escaping. Neither were subtle techniques, but the pain of her tongue detracted her attention from her cause of distress and looking up made it impossible to cry. Lord Hector was not going to be lying on one of those cots, it was going to be a soldier who valiantly defended him. Yes of course, that made more sense. But why would the marquess be here? It must be to show gratitude.

The nurse finally came to a small enclave deep on the other side of another massive hall and bowed at the door. Oswin came out and exchanged a troubled glance with Florina before allowing her into the room.

Lord Hector sat hunched forward on a plain wooden chair, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers interlaced as he regarded the woman on the cot. There was a nurse holding a packet of ice—a luxury in Ostia—under the back of the woman's head as she slept, her eyes rolling under her lids.

Lord Hector glanced at Florina. "What are you doing here?"

"I-I-I-I—"

The look on Hector's face, it wasn't impatience, but it reminded Florina that he had become a different man now. He was what Kent was now, more detached because of the lives he carried upon his shoulders, unable to regard them in the same level for his own defense. If Kent hadn't chosen to marry Florina, not even friendship could have forded that rift of responsibility. At least that was what she had seen between Kent and Sain, a matter that saddened her greatly. Florina cleared her throat and breathed deeply.

"I-I'm sorry," she said. "Fiora sent me word from the Lawliet Road, so I came to deliver a translation and had sent it to your office." Hector nodded, not surprised. So he had already heard… She looked again at the sleeping woman. "_Serra?_"

"She threw a rock through my window," said Hector, returning his attention to the priestess. "I'm here to find out why." He let out a slow sigh and regarded his boots. "What did Fiora's letters say?"

Florina looked at the nurse.

"It's fine," said Hector. "She will say nothing."

Florina nodded. "Fiora believes it was unnatural."

Hector looked now at Florina and sat back against his chair. "Who?"

"Legault."

Hector continued to look at Florina until it seemed he finally comprehended her statement. "Legault," he murmured as he leaned his head back and let out another great sigh, rubbing the inside of his eye with his thumb and middle finger. No, this was certainly not the Hector she had known five years ago. He didn't even have the energy to be shocked. "We knew it was unnatural…but…one of the Elite?"

There was a cry from the nurse. Serra had sprung up, wheezing with each breath, then suddenly moaning from the pain she didn't know existed in her unconscious state. Her hands groped at the back of her head for a moment, but then she forgot again and looked wildly about her. Her eyes lighted upon seeing Lord Hector and she spoke frantically: "Lord Hector! I—I have to—I…" And then for a moment she was at a complete loss for words.

"Serra," said Hector. Her face contorted and she dropped it into her hands and cried out at the sudden spasm of pain shooting from the back of her head. The nurse reapplied the ice pack, assuring the Mend staff would do its magic in ten more minutes.

"Serra," said Hector again. "Serra, are you all right? …well, of course you're not all right. Listen, Serra, listen. You threw a rock through the window. Why?"

"I did," she said. "I threw it where your desk was because I knew you were never there. But I had s-something important to tell you."

Hector glanced at Florina and Oswin.

"What was it?" asked Florina.

Serra didn't even notice the former pegasus knight's presence. She gasped at the pain again at the pain in her head. Tears began streaming down the priestess's face.

"Serra," Hector pressed on.

She only sank into quiet sobs and said, "I'm not crying because it hurts." She looked at Hector for a moment, but she was seeing right through him. "I'm not crying because it hurts. I'm crying because I don't remember."

* * *

Zihark pulled out the golden stone and held it up to the light of the fire, the only source of light in the dank prison room. He saw the flash of recognition on the Bernese wyvern knight's face—and more?—and bitterly catalogued another correct prediction in the back of his mind.

"We know Bern is doing something with these," he said. "And we knowyou know something about it. What is it? That is what I want to know, and you are going to tell me."

"I don't know." The expression was gone from his prisoner's face. Heath remained calmly chained to the wall, seemingly undisturbed by the smell of burning flesh. His own.

"You don't? Ahh…this is why I tell the marquess not to trust your folk. It is bad enough we cannot get lifetime contracts from the Ilians to maintain their loyalty, but why would the marquess bring in a BerneseI cannot fathom. Fine, let me remind you: I'm sure you know this is a wyvern's heart."

Heath remained silent, never dropping his eyes away from those of the Chief of Ostian Intelligence. His armor had been discarded to a corner with care. How ironic that they treated a man's armor with care while systematically hot ironing a hundred seals of Ostia onto his skin for an interrogation. One of the two guards holding the stamping irons was twirling it in the fire on a pedestal in the center of the room.

"This is a wyvern heart," said Zihark again. "But it's far bigger than any we've seen before, and just as it exists, it emits energy hundreds of times what it should. What did they do to this wyvern, and how is your king looking to use this against us?"

"King Zephiel would never engage in war unless given reason."

"Yes, yes, your marvelous King Zephiel…we've heard enough about that from Hector."

Heath narrowed his eyes. "Is that how you regard the marquess?"

Zihark sighed. "The marquess is a good man. But he is too trusting. He is too loyal to some of his friends. He is still… No, that wouldn't be correct. He did not have the misfortunes to face what Lord Uther had to encounter from his own best friend, Marquess Caerlon, so…I simply believe Hector is not yet fully aware of all the dangers that exist, not only to Ostia, but to himself as well. If he does not believe he needs protection from the likes of you, then I suppose I will just have to make certain none like you get near him henceforth. And so…you do not have to question my loyalty. Unlike your own… But then again, you left because your king had told you to do an atrocious thing. Don't look so surprised; we are Intelligence, and we applaud your decision, though the knights may spit upon your name for such insolence, as they would call it. I suppose then we are more alike than you thought, aren't we?"

Zihark motioned for someone in the shadows behind him to bring forth something. A vial. "You don't know this, but this morning we intercepted a message from Bern asking for your return to its service." He stopped for a moment to gauge Heath's reaction. "Apparently, the new king does not recognize your departure from his forces and would be pleased to have you back…or so it is according to a certain Belminade. Yes, yes, you thought he was dead; don't get so happy about it. Well, now, do you see this?" Zihark held it to the light of the fire, a clear liquid. "It isn't a truth serum, but it makes it very difficult to think well enough concoct new lies so…now we shall know what Bern is looking for."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Oh hush." Zihark handed the vial back to the guard. "Now you will drink this," he said. The guard came closer now, opened the vial and brought it to Heath's mouth. Heath instinctively moved his head back, then flushed in shame at flinching. "Don't make this more difficult," Zihark warned, "and if you manage to knock this out of his hands, I have fifty more vials at the ready. We can see how many more Ostian seals we can fit onto your arms while we are waiting for them to come, shall we?"

The guard held up the vial to Heath's lips as Zihark said, "Oh. Any last words before you spill it all?"

"Yes."

Zihark raised his brows.

"Let me have some water."

Zihark looked at Heath for a moment, then with shoulders shaking with silent laughter, opened his own flask and came forward and held it up to Heath's mouth. The soldier drank slowly, one swallow, two swallows, the third. "My intentions for the water," said Heath, "is my only deception." And with that, he spit into Zihark's eyes.

Zihark slowly raised a hand and calmly wiped it away.

"You shouldn't have bothered," said Heath. "You're so blinded by your narrow-minded nationalistic fervor that you could never see this: you and I, Zihark…we are nothing alike."

Zihark turned and nodded to one of the guards with the hot iron.

* * *

**A/N: Sooooo...it's a relief to get away from Ilia for a little bit. This chapter was a big surprise for me. I don't know why Serra and Heath jumped into this story, but apparently they felt the need to. O.O And I don't know what this so-called Mikael is doing here either, but I guess this story's gone off and started writing itself now, because I'm coming to the point of discovering it more than making it follow my lead. Guess we'll just see how it goes then. Hope you enjoyed this installment!**


End file.
